


World Burn

by getoffmybarricade



Category: Les Miserables
Genre: Additional Tags to Be Added, Angst, Courfeyrac being Courfeyrac, Enjolras and Cosette are siblings, Grief, Hunger Games AU, I will add more tags as I go along, Jehan is the best, Les Amis de l’ABC, M/M, Modern AU, Rebellions, Reincarnation, Slow Burn, Some Fluff, Suicidal Thoughts, Switches povs a lot sorry in advance, Valjean is kind of scary, but he’s also nice so it’s okay, future setting, irregular updates very sorry, mentor/stylist Grantaire, revolutions, they literally save everyone, tribute Enjolras, very slow burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-21
Updated: 2021-01-03
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:27:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 46,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23251708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/getoffmybarricade/pseuds/getoffmybarricade
Summary: People didn’t volunteer in District Twelve, not when they had the slimmest chance of winning possible. It wasn’t like in the other districts when people would practically fight to win the chance to earn the Capitol’s praise. That and a chance to get their hands bloody.“Enjolras, no!”Or a hunger games au where no one does what they’re told, Enjolras and Jehan want a revolution and les Amis de L’ABC are awesome
Relationships: Combeferre/Courfeyrac, Cosette/Marius Pontmercy, Enjolras & Combeferre, Enjolras/Grantaire, Feuilly/Jean Prouvaire, Grantaire and Eponine Thenardier, Montparnasse/Jean Prouvaire -past, implied/referenced Joly/Bossuet
Comments: 21
Kudos: 71





	1. Chapter 1

The sun had barely risen over the Capitol’s city of colour, and a man stood at the very edge of a bridge. There was no one about, the entire world around him fast asleep, so there was nobody to stop him. 

Grantaire ran a shaking hand through his inky hair, his breath rattling inside of his chest. It wasn’t the first time he’d though about this, but it was the first time he’d come close enough to do it. He supposed it had always been a thought at the back of his mind, like a solution that he’d been trying to ignore, but he just couldn’t  do  it anymore. 

He couldn’t bare to see another person die because of his incapability to help them. To prepare them. He couldn’t watch another helpless boy or girl barely younger than himself be thrown to their deaths just because he couldn’t help ready them enough. Enough to get them noticed, or liked. Enough so that they could survive.

He just couldn’t. 

And he’d told himself countless times that if he was gone, then somebody else would have to take over his job, somebody else could help that person win...but was that really what he wanted? To end everything? 

No, it wasn’t. But was it the right thing to do? 

He couldn’t leave, he was trapped within the 

city’s walls and deep down he knew the only way he could ever be free was if he escaped the pure burden of living. 

Because, really, what was there worth living for? He could be replaced easily enough; a new mentor, a new stylist, anyone could take his job in a heartbeat. He was nothing special and he’d only won his Games by a chance of pure luck. That, and being driven almost insane with grief and guilt. 

But that meant the Capitol won, all the years he’d spent as a prisoner would have been in vain. If he was to die, he would go down with a fight. Not like this, not giving in to his own broken mind. 

Grantaire stepped away from the railings. The overwhelming urge to just let go had subsided, the roaring fire that burned with his guilt dying back down to barely more than an ember. He couldn’t do it. 

_ You’re a fucking coward , he thought .  You can’t even do that right... _

_ Grantaire closed his eyes and let the wind cool his face down, hearing the world around him slowly come to life. The occasional beep of a car, or the melody from a bird. It was time, he thought. By the time night fell, another person’s life would be in his hands.  _

_ He swore to himself that no matter who was burdened by him, whether they stood all the chances in the world or none at all, (and he was aware it was most likely the latter), he would try his absolute hardest to get them to win.  _

_ Of course, the odds never seemed to be in his favour anymore ... _

_ ~~~~ _

_ Grantaire wandered around his shitty apartment for a while, trying to form a plan on how exactly he would ensure the survival of his tribute.  _

_ The problem with this plan was that Grantaire really wasn’t much of a thinker, and so...well,  thinking , definitely was not his strongest suit.  _

_ Ironic.  _

_ He never quite came to a conclusion for this concept either, but the day had slipped on quickly, almost midday, and he reasoned he had better watch what happened at the reaping so he could see just exactly who he would be mentoring. As his ever growing misfortune had to have it, he was forced into mentoring the District Twelve tributes. Every. Single. Year.  _

_ And so what if it was his home? So what if he was, a few years, crowned Victor of Twelve? His survival was supposed to ensure he was safe for good but oh no. Oh no of  course  he couldn’t just be left alone. He had to watch people he knew die every year instead. Their blood was practically on his hands.  _

_ District Twelve. The district most unlikely to win. In all the many years of The Hunger Games, that particular one had seen only one victor; himself. At fifteen years old.  _

_ However, he was been told he was banned from returning to his district. Denied to be reunited with his family and his home. He didn’t know what they had been told, probably that he chose to stay, and all because of one act of defiance... _

_~~~~~~~~~~~_

_  
“No!” He was screaming, as he watched the girl tribute from his district struggle for breath as the boy from District Three pinned her down. The netting that had previously caught her off guard was tightening around her as she thrashed around, dark hair stuck to her face with a mixture of rain water and the sweat he could see glistening in her forehead as he saw the first tears begin to fall.  _

_ “No! Eponine, NO!” He shrieked, terror scratching at his throat as he became unable to move, frozen to the spot with complete and utter horror.  _

_ “Go!” She yelled, tears mingling with her blood as the boy’s spear pierced her stomach, the shaft disappearing completely into her stomach. There was so much desperation in her voice, hoarse with pain, and her eyes were slowly loosing light. “Run, Taire, RUN!”  _

_ There was so much urgently in her eyes, in his best friend’s voice, and it paralysed him where he stood, his heart thudding so violently he was sure it was about to pump out of his chest.  _

_ Eponine was never supposed to die.  _

_ She was supposed to win. He had planned for himself and her to be the last three standing. He would have taken out the other tribute and then himself shortly after.  _

_ Eponine wasn’t supposed to die.  _

_ “No, please! Please stop!” There were tears streaming down his own face, voice cracking and breaking as hers cried out again that one last time but then silenced by the cannon that signalled the end of her life. _

_ She was gone. _

_ His best friend was gone. _

_ The last thing he remembered was the pain in her eyes before she fell still; another person barely more than just a piece of the Capitol’s games.  _

_ A fire rose up inside of him, burning and bubbling until the point where he could see nothing but white hot anger. It pulsed through him and transformed him, his fear disappeared and in its place was an uncontrollable fire that raged and screamed until he knew nothing but the pain inside of him.  _

_He didn’t remember how he killed the other boy. Only knew that he’d won, the anthem blasting out deafeningly loud, threatening to burst his eardrums. And then he was being pulled_ from the arena, pulled above the treetops _and into the white room inside of the hovercraft. With Eponine vanishing from his sight forever._

_ And he screamed and he swore and he lashed out at every person that touched him or tried to calm him because they were all monsters. Every single one of them. And he remembered crying until his eyes felt empty and he had turned numb. He curled up in a ball and wished that it had been him, that he’d been killed either with or instead of Eponine, or that he would just die now, his blood boiling as he screamed every insult that came to his mind. The whole thing was so despicable, how could someone be so inhuman they forced children to kill each other as a punishment.  _

_ Children... _

_ He just wished it would all stop. That everything would stop. The would would stop spinning and people would stop smiling and laughing because his had gone dark. His whole world had collapsed.  _

_ And at the interviews he had sat with a face of stone. The host, Felix Tholomeys, has tried to interact with him and ask him questions, but Grantaire didn’t speak. Not when his surgically altered face peered closely at his own. Not when he laughed along with the audience with his stupid orange suit and his vile purple hair.  _

_ But then they placed the Victor’s Crown on his head, golden and sparkling under the lights of the auditorium, studded with diamonds and pearls. Much more than anyone back at home could afford with even their life savings. These people spent their time watching the Districts suffer for their own disgusting entertainment. They  _ enjoyed  _it. They_ _laughed and craved for more. More blood. More pain. More suffering._

_ And suddenly he was ignited with a new fire like that morning in the arena. Felix asked him what his thoughts were and Grantaire locked eyes with him, staring daggers into his violet eyes as he stood up and addressed the crowd. He could tell he was shaking, legs weak and heavy at the same time; blocks of lead that felt like they were about to snap.  _

_ Grantaire felt a single tear slip down his cheek and he lifted the crown from his head and held it up to the light. He bit down hard on his lip, watching as a reddish tint from one of the rubies engraved in it danced around the room. Red; the colour of blood and despair. Red; the same blood that drowned his friend and then it was too much all of a sudden. Red. Red. So much red. He saw the entire crowd follow it, glancing from the crown to him and then to each other.  _

_ “We will rise,” he said, his voice dripping with raw hatred and anger and pain, so much pain that it blinded him. “We will rise and this city will go up in flames and the world will burn. It will burn and you will go down with it. Every single one of you monsters who created this will turn to ash until there is nothing left but the burning, poisonous embers of a city who’s mind was taken over by pacifists!” _

_ They weren’t even his own words. They were a boy’s from the district. He was younger than Grantaire but by years his mind was older. He’d witnessed that himself from the back corner of the Musain where they planned and shouted to the streets.  _

_ Simultaneously, the crowd let out a collective gasp of horror, even a few shocked whimpers and screams, and the lights went out and the room was plunged into darkness. In the midst of the chaos he felt a hand grab him by the neck and he was slammed backwards against a wall offstage. He felt the crown slip from between his fingers and land with a heavy thud on the floor as he was hit with a terrible blow on the side of his face.  _

_ He cried out in muffled pain, falling to the ground as he was continuously beaten; kicked and slapped and whipped in the darkness, the pain was unendurable and a part of Grantaire wished he could just die right here, right now, but then he was being dragged to his feet and a cold voice breathed into his ear, sending chills down his spine.   
_

_ “There’s no getting out of this now.” _

Grantaire felt the same shiver of cold fear brush over his shoulders and closed his eyes in agony. The pain of loosing his best friend never went away, never left him. He didn’t know how he was supposed to carry on pretending that this was okay, that these tributes that were about to be faced with death would have any better chance at survival than they ever have. 

The people never rose and Grantaire had long since lost any faith in the hope that they one day would. He turned to the bottle in a desperate attempt to block out his fear and hatred that always battled its way to the surface. They people didn’t rise and they never would. There was nothing he could do anymore. There was nothing a joke could do. 

Except...

Except - _no_. 

_No_. 

No he was _not_ hoping for that boy to be dragged into the Games. Even his fiery personality would never be able to take on the Capitol. But it would mean that Grantaire would see him again. Those cerulean blue eyes and his-

-god fucking damnit! He was so  _selfish_.  So unbelievably selfish and even after all he’s been through, was he still willing to let him be dragged into the Games for one stolen glimpse of him. 

No, of course not. 

Surely he’s not that despicable. He’s not stooped to the Capitol’s level. If he knew one thing for certain it was that. 

But even so; passionate and fiery boy that had won the games four years ago was gone, and it his place was the cynical, hopeless man that had replaced him. 

He was hit once more with that wave of uncontrollable sadness that even now put lines under his eyes and kept his lips turned downwards. 

Perhaps he should have jumped after all...


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He was shaking and burning with anger, all the whilst wishing and praying that it’s wasn’t him, he wasn’t going to get picked. Not me, please not me...
> 
> And it’s wasn’t him.  
> And it wasn’t Cosette.

Enjolras woke to the sound of muffled sobs. For a moment he vaguely wondered who it could be, still half pulled under by asleep, before sitting up to clear his mind. 

“Cosette?” He whispered into the darkness. No answer. “Cosette, I know you’re awake.”

Enjolras pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed, slipping out of his bed and tiptoeing across the room, shivering as the cold from the broken window rushed past him, trying his utmost hardest not to wake his mother. God knows he wouldn’t be able to deal with her screaming at him this early in the morning. 

He fumbled around for a moment, before his hand found his sister’s shaking shoulder, and he sat down next to her. Cosette immediately melted into him, sobbing more fiercely, and he wrapped a protective arm around her. “Hey, hey, it’s okay,” he soothed, “it’s not gonna be you, don’t worry.”

He understood her fear; every year he desperately hopes and wishes that it’s not going to be him who’s name gets drawn out of the big spherical bowl, that’s it’s not him being sentenced to his death. Because District Twelve tributes never win...only, well only once. And who even knows what happened to him...

“But it’s not me I’m worried about,” Cosette’s voice jolted him back to reality. “Enjolras, your name’s in the reaping bowl more times than anyone else I know!”

“It’s okay,” he smiled. “They won’t pick me, or you for that matter.”

Cosette opened her mouth as if to speak, but hesitated before biting her lip and flopping back against him, her blue eyes wide with fear and anticipation. 

“Okay,” she said softly, “okay I trust you.”

And Enjolras felt his heart shatter because there was absolutely nothing in his power that he could do to protect her from the cruelty of this world, no matter how hard he tried. The Capitol was stronger, he couldn’t change that. Not yet, anyway. 

~~~~~

The Square was the largest place in Twelve , and on a summers day it could look almost...nice; the bakers shop would be lined with freshly baked cakes and pastries, a few mockingjays singing between the branches of trees. But today, although it was summer, the air had a heavy, tense feeling to it. And with Twelve’s entire population crammed tightly in there, it felt claustrophobic and too hot; too many people huddled together in a too-small space. 

The town was divided into two halves: boys on one side and girls on the other. Each age section was roped off and all of the tributes that age would be held together, the youngest- twelve years old- at the front, and the oldest- eighteen years old- right at the back. Enjolras was in latter section, shoved roughly into line so that he couldn’t even see his friends. Cosette, being fifteen, was three sections ahead and way out of his eyesight, and Enjolras found himself tapping his foot on the ground agitatedly as he gritted his teeth, waiting for the ceremony to begin. 

The camera crews were perched on the rooftops like revolting birds, waiting and watching to see who the next two kids forced into the arena would be. The next to two kids to be sent to the slaughter. Parents or those over eighteen stood around the edges of the square, the small minority making bets on who the next two tributes would be. 

It was vile, Enjolras thought to himself, how someone’s entire future could be fitted around their name being drawn from a glass bowl. Because even if you win the Games, your life still gets no better. True, you’re given more money then you could possibly need, but you have to become a mentor. You have to train tributes, people you know, to kill or _ be  _ killed. 

God, how he wished there was something he could do to stop all of this. Wished he could show them what it was like to watch their children, family and friends die every year and have no power against it. Enjolras felt the familiar burning hot anger rising up inside of him and he clenched his fists so hard his knuckles were white. He had to shut his eyes to stop the ground swaying beneath him and in that time, the ceremony had begun. 

He’d missed the entire opening speech, could faintly hear the anthem playing somewhere in the distance, but he wasn’t listening. He was shaking and burning with anger, all the whilst wishing and praying that it’s wasn’t him, he wasn’t going to get picked.  _ Not me, please not me ... _

And it’s wasn’t him. 

And it wasn’t Cosette.

It was Gavroche Thenardier 

It took him a second to process the information, momentarily relived that it wasn’t his or his sister’s name called out. He wobbled above the cusp reality for a second and then it all came hurtling back at a terrifying speed, true realisation hitting him. 

_No_.  He though.  _ No, no, no.  _

And suddenly his mind was filled with images of a dark haired girl with bright eyes despite the hardships life presented her with. 

~~~~~~~

_ Eponine made her way up to the stage as Enjolras watched in horror. She was fifteen years old, taking care of a younger brother in an abusive home.  _

_ They spoke a lot, himself and Eponine. They’d help each other out with errands around the District; finding food and trading goods together in the Musain. And she frequently attended his meetings and rallies, contrary to her more cynical view on his ideals.  _

_ And now he was frozen with absolute fear at the thought of her being dropped into the games. He tried to scream, but his voice was stuck in his throat. He couldn’t move or breathe or do anything.  _

_ He couldn’t volunteer, and nobody else was doing so, but he could hear the cries of a young boys voice. “Ponine!” He screeched from somewhere in the crowds. “Ponine, NO!” _

_ And Enjolras couldn’t help her.  _

_ She locked eyes with him and gave him half a smile, but Enjolras shook his head helplessly as the tears fell. There was nothing he could do... _

_ And he remembered watching her beingkilled in the arena. He’d screamed and fell to his knees, cursing and shouting at the boy who murdered her. At the boy who didn’t help her.  _

_ He can’t remember his name.  _

_ And then he was outside her house, cradling the younger boy-Gavroche-as he cried in his arms. “I’m so sorry.” He’d whispered. “I’m so, so sorry,” _

~~~~~~~~

And now little Gavroche, twelve years old, was being thrown into an arena full of dangerous people.People who would have years upon years of advantage on him. People with huge muscles and hands halfthe side of dustbin lids...and now easily they could strangle him to death. If they even let him die so easily. And sure, there would be scrawnier, smaller people than those too but even they would have a better chance than a skinny little twelve year old from the Seam. 

He looked so much like her now; huge dark eyes and dark hair. The way his nose was shaped like a slope and how his eyes were lined with long lashes. He couldn’t let that happen. He’d already lost a sister and Enjolras wasn’t going to let him be the next to die. 

“I volunteer,” he said. But his voice was too quite and broken to be heard as he watched Gavroche stumble out of line and start his way up to the stage. Enjolras felt his heart shatter into a million pieces and with a surge of grief driven adrenaline, he shouted. “I volunteer as tribute!” 

The entire square fell silent. People didn’t volunteer in District Twelve, not when they had the slimmest chance of winning possible. It wasn’t like in the other districts when people would practically fight to win the chance to earn the Capitol’s praise. That and a chance to get their hands bloody. 

He heard a series of cries, some from his friends and people he must have worked with, but Cosette’s was the most distinguishable:

“ _ Enjolras NO!”  _

He saw her being held back by Combeferre, his dark eyes full of sadness but a strange understanding. Combeferre always knew what was right and what would be the most ethical thing to do and he could see that despite the slump of his shoulders he knew Enjolras had done the right thing. 

But he gritted his teeth and pushed his way forwards, heart thumping so loudly he swore the entire crowd could hear him, before a pair of skinny arms wrapped around him. He looked down and saw Gavroche clinging to him. He shook his head as if to say no, and Enjolras couldn’t help but admire his bravery. It challenged that of so many older, experienced people he knew but when h thought about it, it really was no surprise. Growing up in an abusive household with the only real loving person in his life being murdered could only add a strength to a person that most wouldn’t even dream of understanding. 

Gavroche rugged at the hem of his shirt a little and Enjolras knelt down beside him, forcing himself not to get choked up. 

“You’ll win, won’t you Enjolras?” He said. Enjolras counted to three in his head to try and clear his mind. 

_No_. 

“I’ll try, Gav. I’ll try my very best.” Gavroche nodded silently, too solemn for a child, and Enjolras pressed on, “and you tell Combeferre that one day, you’ll make a great revolutionary?” The boy nodded once more and he looked out to the crowd, finding Cosette’s tearful stare. He pulled the red ribbon that tied his hair back from his scraped up hairstyle and pressed it into Gavroche’s hand. “Give this to Cosette, will you? And could you tell her-tell her that she doesn’t have to steal it when I’m not looking. She can have it.” The boy gave a weak smile and pressed himself into Enjolras’s chest once more. 

“Thank you,” he whispered. 

“Don’t worry about it.” 

He wished it was as simple as that. 

He carried on forwards and climbed the stone steps to the stage on by one. Time seemed to drag on forever, every pair of eyes pinned on him and every stare boring into his neck. 

This was it. There was no going back now. 

  
  


And he felt the first bit of his carefully glued back together life chip away again. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So if it wasn’t clear;  
> Enjolras is 18  
> Eponine was killed at 15  
> Gavroche is 12  
> And Grantaire is 19
> 
> That’s all :)


	3. Chapter 3

Night had fallen like a thick, black coat, and Enjolras pressed his forehead against the cool glass of the train window. The silhouette of District Twelve was fading, growing smaller and smaller in the moonlight, and Enjolras felt a pang in his stomach as he realised that everything he’d ever known was fading from view. And probably forever. 

There was a knock on the compartment door and he heard a voice whisper, “Can I come in?”

For a moment, his mind went numb; the voice sounded almost exactly like Cosette’s-soft and melodic and sweet. And the girl who poked her head around the door resembled her greatly too; large, glassy eyes, small button nose and full lips. This girl’s skin was much darker and her hair was curly and black, but even the way she tilted her head slight as she spoke reminded him of Cosette. But all the same it was slightly unnerving how much she resembled her, and the same overcoming feeling of loneliness spread through his chest.

“Sorry,” she said, mistaking his wide-eyed expression as one of annoyance and beginning to leave, her smile faltering a little

“No, no, it’s okay,” he laughed, running a hand over his forehead. “Did you need something?” He asked. 

The girl paused before shaking her head, and Enjolras, noticing the slight uncertainty, raised an eyebrow. “Are you sure?”

“I just-“ she sighed, “I’m Vivienne,” 

“Oh,” Ah, so she was the District Twelve female tribute. In his blind panic earlier he hadn’t taken note of who else’s name had been drawn out. “I’m Enjolras.” He said. 

“Yeah, I know,” she smiled, tucking a strand of dark hair behind her ear. Enjolras pinched his nose and sighed. 

“I’m sorry, I probably look like such an idiot-“

“Oh, no it’s fine!” Vivienne laughed, and Enjolras relaxed slightly, “I, um, I saw you in the audience when I was on the stage and you were definitely not listening and, well, they don’t repeat the names twice anyway, so...” 

Enjolras attempted a smile, it was small and flickering and probably not very convincing but it was a smile all the same. 

“ You know you’re not as terrifying up close,” Vivienne said thoughtfully. Enjolras looked up, wondering if he’d heard her correctly. 

Vivienne frowned and then her eyes widened as she realised what she’d said. 

“Oh. No, no, no, no, no,” she reassured him hurriedly, her hands waving around a little frantically, “I didn’t mean to say that out loud. And that’s not how I meant it either, I just thought-“ she sighed and rubbed a hand over her face, “-I meant, my brother always said you were scary but in a good way, i suppose. And I’ve seen you with Combeferre-is that his name? Yes? Okay, well I’ve seen you together and you don’t seem as scary then but...” she trailed off, coughing a little. She shook her head. 

And Enjolras, although deeply confused, felt sort of proud that he’d even been noticed beyond Les Amis De L’ABC. He wasn’t really sure of ‘proud’ was the right word...

Although deep inside of him he was dreading the day he would be thrown into the arena, perhaps he stood a better chance than he thought. And although his only train of thought was to get back to Cosette, he really did hope that this girl he’d just met stood a similar chance.

If anything, he hoped she’d win. Because he didn’t want to have to kill innocent people just so that he could then he trapped in the Hunger Games’ Cycle; become a mentor and have to watch other tributes, people he  knew , die. He didn’t want to be just another part of the Capitol’s games. He was tired of that. Tired of the constant suffering and pain; hunger, cold, whippings. People in the Capitol never experienced this sort of brutality. The only thing they cared about was what they got for their next meal, not like people in the Districts. There, people had to worry about  _ if  _ they got their next meal. And even then it was likely to be some stale grain or something like that. 

So if he was to die, which he knew would probably be what happened-he’d accepted that, he would go down with a fight. If Vivienne didn’t make it, there was nothing he could really do about it, but if she did...well, at least Twelve would have a winner. 

She seemed like the kind of girl people wanted to be friends with. The kind of person who was naturally kind-hearted and pure, and again Enjolras found himself angry that someone like her was being forced into a game of murder. 

Of course, she could easily turn out to be some sort of psychopathic lunatic( Enjolras remembered seeing a girl from Five use that tactic; appear weak and vulnerable and then at the last second kill off every last contestant) but somehow he highly doubted that. 

“Sorry. I’ve just made that really awkward, haven’t I?” She finished. 

“No, no, it’s fine. Thank you...I think?” He reassured her, and to his surprise she breathed out a sigh of relief, even laughing a little. 

“Okay, phew.”

A comfortable silence fell between them, before Vivienne seemed to remember the reason she came, her eyes widening significantly. “Oh,” she said suddenly, tapping her fingers against the door frame, “I meant to tell you that Valjean’s coming-“

“-sorry, who?”

“Our advisor. Um, I think he’s pretty angry about...something, so I, er-“

She was cut off as footsteps were heard in the hallway, heavy and fast approaching, before the wooden door to the compartment was thrown open. 

“They’re not happy,” a voice said gruffly, distress laced into every syllable, “Jesusfucking  _ Christ _ , they’re not happy.”

The speaker was a man probably in his late fifties; tall and muscular and altogether quite intimidating. His tanned skin was weary with age, deep lines beginning to crease and cross with each other. His blue eyes gleamed as he spoke, fires burning inside of them, and his smoky grey hair was streaked with a powder white. 

Enjolras immediately dropped his gaze, not wanting direct eye contact with the guy who seemed to have an irrational hatred for him. He smiled nervously and bit the inside of his cheek. 

“I’m sorry, is something funny?” Enjolras nearly jumped out of his skin at the sound of 

(Valjean, was it’s?) voice. He tucked a strand of hair behind his ear unconsciously and froze up. 

“I-“

“-So why did you do it?” He asked sharply, towering impossibly tall over Enjolras, eyes glowing. “For a laugh? As a joke?”

Enjolras just gaped up at him, completely dumbfounded. He had absolutely no idea what was going on but this Valjean, or whoever he was, seemed to be under the impression that he had committed some sort of terrible crime. “Or did you just want to try and cause us all a shit tonne more of trouble?”

He heard the voice of Vivienne interrupt somewhere but she was sharply cut off again, “not now,” he snapped. 

“I’m sorry, I really don’t know what’s going on...” Enjolras garbled lamely, eyes wide as he shook his head helplessly. 

Valjean stopped abruptly in his tracks, a crease forming between his eyebrows as a frown settled on his face. 

“I-what?”

Enjolras just shrugged, running a hand through his hair and sighing. 

He was tired, it had been an exhaustingly long day and he suddenly felt as if he was about to cry. And if he  was  going to, he’d rather be alone than have to deal with other people. 

“You have absolutely  _ no idea  _ why-whats going on at all?”

“Well apparently not,” Enjolras snapped, feeling his face flushing angrily as he glared up at Valjean, who was still stood terrifyingly close to him. “But please, do care to enlighten me; I mean it’s only  _ my  _ life that’s about to be cut short!”

Valjean’s face screwed up in frustration; eyebrows drawn closely together, eyes wide-open and glaring. His mouth was tightly closed, the red margins of his lips becoming narrow and thinner. “Listen here you-“

“-Did you watch the reaping?”

All heads turned as a figure appeared in the doorway...a figure who looked (but surely couldn’t be) well, familiar. And it wasn’t just the fact that he  _ knew  _ this man. Well, knew  _ of  _ him. But there was something strange about his eyes, something about their bright green that he’d seen before. 

But...but how was he here?

~~~~~~~~

“Did you watch the reaping?” Grantaire repeated mildly, leaning against the doorframe with a mug of coffee in his hand. 

He purposely avoided the fiery blue eyes of the golden haired god, which reminded him so vividly of the cerulean acrylic paint he used, sat a few meters away from him.  _ Of course it would be him that got picked,  _ Grantaire thought irritably,  _of fucking course._

** Four hours earlier  **

_ Grantaire dragged his tired self into his living room and flopped down onto his sofa, wriggling around to try and get rid of the springs. Just his luck to be trapped in the Capitol, the richest place in Panem, but still unable to live like a decent Capitol citizen. _

_ He sighed heavily and flicked the tv on, groaning loudly as the unbearably annoying voice of the Reaping Announcer filled his ears. He’d missed the rest of the ceremony; he could tell because they were announcing District Twelve.  _

_ He was filled suddenly with a sense of longing and sadness, it was his  _ home _.  His family and friends were back there, and as much as life in Twelve was a struggle he’d give anything to return.  _

_ He wanted to feel the familiar warmth of his mother’s arms, his sister’s brilliant laugh. Anything. Anything that would convince him there was something in his life that was worth fighting for. Because here in the Capitol, it was like every movement was controlled and programmed, the oblivious citizens brainwashed and trapped in the city’s walls.  _

_ Grantaire scanned the crowd, looking for that one person he could never take his eyes off of. That someone being a certain golden haired angel filled with undeniable passion. And there he was, squashed between two other boys who seemed relatively plain and boring compared to the beauty stood beside them. And like every other year, the boy’s eyes were alight with fire, cerulean blue that pierced through the screen, his face was stony with anger. The screen only panned past him for a second, before a voice was filling the square.  _

_ Every year, Grantaire hoped it wasn’t the blonde boy that was called out, that the angel with golden curls and tanned skin wasn’t forced to his death. It must be his last year, Grantaire thought suddenly, after all he was only a year younger than himself. And the name, as he waited with baited breath, wasn’t his.  _

_ Gavroche Thenardier.  _

_ No. No. NO! Grantaire felt the walls that held his life together crumble, everything crashing back down. He’d not even realised that Gavroche would be even legible for the games. He screamed out at the tv, sinking to his knees, cursing and shouting at the Capitol for allowing this to happen.  _

_ He looked just like Eponine had; fear widening his large chocolate eyes, face paling drastically. The cameras had zoomed in cruelly close to him, so close that you could see his hands shaking and bottom lip trembling.  _

_ It had happened again; the immense feeling of being submerged underwater, drowning slowly...he couldn’t feel. He couldn’t think. He couldn’t breathe, gasping for air as he tried to cling onto reality, everything spinning out of control because  there was nothing he could do.  He couldn’t save him.  _

_ Through his panic, he barely heard the voice; “ _ I volunteer!”

_ Everything stopped.  _

_ “ _ I volunteer as tribute.”

_ He recognised that voice. He would recognise that voice from anywhere. Hell, he’d even follow that voice to the ends of the world and back if that was what was asked of him.  _

~~~~~~~~

So now Grantaire was stood facing that very voice, blonde curls bouncing around his ears He’d always been so drawn to the man’s eyes; there was always a certain intensity, honesty and kindness swirling in the depths of them. He was truly beautiful, more beautiful than any other man Grantaire had ever laid his eyes upon. It didn’t seem fair that soon those eyes could become glassy and still, the body cold and unmoving. 

He watched as Valjean shook his head stiffly, dark eyes narrowing noticeably. “No, I didn’t watch the reaping.” 

Grantaire let out a low whistle, taking a sip of the ridiculously hot coffee he was drinking. (He pretended that it didn’t burn his tongue. It did. And it stung like hell)

“Well if you  _ had _ then you would have realised that he volunteered for a  _child_. ”

The edge that had crept into his voice slipped away, and he looked up at Valjean sadly, trying to make him realise how unfair the situation was. “It wasn’t out of pride, or whatever you think he was doing. Which, by the way, was _extremely_ over dramatic. Even for you.”

“Yeah. Well. I don’t want a dead revolutionary on my hands.” Valjean mumbled, avoiding Enjolras’s furious gaze. 

“‘Revolutionary,’” Grantaire smirked without meaning to. He cursed himself as he felt Enjolras’s fury shift to him. “Sorry,” he added, trying to downplay his grin.

Valjean turned to Enjolras and fixed him with a sharp stare. 

“You’d better do your best to stay alive, boy.” 

Enjolras simply raised an eyebrow and Grantaire felt his heart sink a little. Of course Enjolras would try and do the noble thing of putting everyone else before himself. Valjean looked like he was about to explode. 

“Look, if we want even the slightest hope for a revolution one day you better-“

“-Revolution?” Enjolras ears seemed to prick up and Valjean immediately backtracked, Grantaire just shaking his head at the show. 

“No. Not for you.” 

(Grantaire did  _ not  _ snort a little at that. He _didn’t_ ).

“I don’t believe you.” 

“Of course you don’t.”

“You called me a revolutionary.” He pointed out, and he literally pouted.  _Pouted_. 

“Yeah well-“ 

“No ones throwing a revolution.” Grantaire cut in, his head hurting from all the talk of it, and it was starting to bring up bad memories. 

“You don’t  _ throw  _ a revolution.” Enjolras muttered under his breath. Everyone turned to look at him and he held his hands up in mock surrender. Grantaire sighed. 

“Yeah, well, now that’s settled can we pick this up tomorrow. It’s been a long day.” He said. 

“‘Long day’.” Valjean huffed, “what’ve you done? Had to get up early?” 

“Yes, actually. And I need my beauty sleep.” He protested, dramatically flicking his hair out of his face. Vivienne sniggered. 

“Too right you do.” The older man grumbled, glancing briefly at Enjolras before opening his mouth as if he were about to say something. He struggled for a moment, closing and opening his mouth, eventually giving him a curt nod and leaving the room, Vivienne close behind him. 

Grantaire let out a sigh of relief and leant back against the door frame, his heart beating irrationally quick. 

“What the hell was all that about?”

Grantaire frowned, glancing over at Enjolras who was sat on his bed with his arms folded. 

He must be joking, Grantaire thought, he must have some idea of why Valjean had been so angry...right?

Well apparently he was very wrong. And for someone as obviously intelligent as Enjolras, Grantaire was surprised at just how clueless he was being. 

“I’m sorry?”

“I don’t see the problem in me volunteering.” Enjolras said huffily, standing up from the bed and leaning against one of the deep purple velvet walls. 

“The problem wasn’t you  _ volunteering _ _,”_ Grantaire replied, walking over to where the other man was stood, “the problem is that it’s  _you_. ”

Enjolras still seemed to be unable to comprehend what was going one. 

“I don’t-“

“-the problem is that you put every ounce of effort stored in you into rebelling and causing absolute chaos for the Capitol. The protests, the speeches,the false messages-which, by the way, is undeniably clever-the rallies;  _everything_.  The peacekeepers in Twelve record all this stuff and they cart it off back to the government here. They  know  what you’re doing!”

Grantaire sighed and flopped down onto Enjolras’s bed, wanting more than anything 

to just go to sleep. 

“I’m aware they know,” Enjolras snapped, frowning over at him and folding his arms. “That’s the whole point. What I don’t understand is why it’s such an issue that I’m here? Surely if anything it’s a relief for them-get me out of the way?”

He really was impossible, Grantaire thought. And incredibly selfless too, by the sound of it. It didn’t seem like Enjolras came to win; more like he just didn’t want to see little Gavroche die. 

“Look,” he sighed, “the Gamemakers know who you are too. They’re gonna go home and tell their families and friends all about you and how they can finally put the chaos to an end. And then they’re gonna tell  their  friends and so on. 

The word will get out and the Capitol are going to make your life  _ hell  _ in the arena, you’ll struggle with sponsors and then Valjean’s life will be made even harder and god knows he’ll take that out on me.

It all goes round and round and like it or not, there’s only a slim chance that you’ll make it out of there alive.Pretty much nothing. Because they’re going to do everything in their power to kill you. And Christ knows that if  _ you  _ go and die on me I’d pitch myself off of the Capitol Bridge by the time the Games are over.”

He hadn’t meant to say the last bit out loud, and now Enjolras was probably going to figure out that Grantaire had been pretty much head over heels for him ever since he first saw the golden haired boy speaking about a new future seven years ago. After all, it was  _ his  _ words that he’d gone and yelled during his Victor’s Ceremony. 

Grantaire glanced over at the other man who had paled a considerable amount whilst he’d been speaking. Enjolras’s eyes were narrowed and he was frowning slightly, as if he couldn’t understand why Grantaire was stood in front of him.“And why do you keep looking at me like that?” He added irritably. 

“Because up until today I was completely sure you were dead.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooo what do you think?  
> The next chapter should be up soon but feel free to comment any suggestions to what could happen soon...?  
> :)


	4. Chapter 4

I’m sorry, what?” 

Grantaire froze, feeling his blood start to turn to ice. Dead? Surely not...there was no way his family would think he was dead, right? 

“I think I misheard you, could you say that again?” He asked weakly, leaning against one of the bed poles to stop everything from spinning. He knew he’d heard correctly, he was just desperately hoping it wasn’t true. 

Enjolras looked at him strangely, concern glinting in those damn blue eyes of his. He raised an eyebrow slightly before saying, “I said, up until today I was completely sure you were dead.”

“Well that’s just fucking great!” Grantaire laughed, but it was forced and strained, and sounded more like a bark. He ran a hand over his face and tried to ignore the fact that it was shaking like crazy. “I’m not.” He added unnecessarily (and slightly hysterically) shaking his head, his chest constructing tightly.

Enjolras eyed him suspiciously, confusion written all over his face. “Yes, I can see that.”

“I-what?  _ Dead _ ?” He repeated, unable to comprehend why anyone would think he was dead. They saw his interview, and he was very much alive, and they must have seen him on television at some point-he was a Victor after all. 

“They said you jumped from a bridge a few days after the Games ended.”

Grantaire frowned, choking on the words he meant to say. 

“No,no,no,” he said desperately, “but my interview...” he faltered as he saw Enjolras shaking his head slowly, eyes wide as it finally dawned on him. 

“There was no interview.” 

He was speechless.

_ Everyone thought he was dead.   
  
_ Gavroche, his family, everyone. 

And there wasn’t an interview either; nobody heard what he said. It was all for nothing...

“What did you  _ do _ ?” Enjolras half whispered, glancing at the doorway to make sure there was no one there. 

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Grantaire-“

“I said it doesn’t matter!” He sighed and bit the inside of his cheek, ignoring the weird feeling in the pit of his stomach as Enjolras pouted and folded his arms. “Just leave it, will you?” 

A moment of silence fell between them, Grantaire desperately avoiding Enjolras’s gaze, before he broke the silence. 

“Well, I should probably go then...” he said more to himself than to Enjolras. “We’re arriving at the Capitol tomorrow; you should get some sleep.”

Enjolras nodded and opened his mouth as if to say something, but seemed to think better of it. He frowned gently, a small crease forming between his eyebrows, then looked back up at Grantaire. 

“Yeah, I guess.” He sighed eventually. 

As he was about to leave, he heard Enjolras’s voice call out one last time,

“You, er, you don’t know who my stylist is, do you?”

Grantaire did his best to suppress the grin that had spread on his face and turned around on the spot, his green eyes meeting the blue ones. 

“Me.” He grinned, and dropped into a mock bow and backed out of the compartment, definitely not tripping over a box in the hallway. No, he didn’t do that. And Enjolras didn’t laugh at him either.

But the moment he left, the grin slipped from his face and he fell against one of the walls, his heart pounding in his chest as the train rattled on towards the Capitol. 

“R?” A voice said softly, and for a second, Grantaire thought that Enjolras had returned and his stomach did a small flip. 

But when he opened his eyes, he was met with the huge hazel ones of Jehan. 

His auburn hair was plaited down his shoulders, his collar bones poking out from under the lilac jumper he was wearing. His heavy lidded eyes that were framed with long eyelashes were widened with concern and Grantaire could see a kindness swirling in them. 

Jehan was the definition of beauty, almost,but not quite ,challenging Enjolras’s angle like features; brown skin that was dotted with freckles scattering across the bridge of his nose and cheeks, arc-shaped lips that were painted a deep red and a rosy blush staining his cheeks, a little flower drawn in white eyeliner under his left eye. His eyebrows were perfectly arched, not a hair out of place, expect for the slit after the bridge of his left.He tilted his head sideways, tucking a strand of hair behind his ear to reveal a singular white flower. 

“Are you okay?”

“I-no.” Grantaire whispered, running a shaking hand over his eyes. He glanced around the corridor uncertainly, knowing the place would be laced with cameras that could overhear them at any point. “I need some air.” He said pointedly, knowing Jehan would translate it into not wanting to be heard. He turned on his heel and grabbed hold of his small wrist, pulling him out and onto the platform outside the train. 

“Taire-“

“-Not yet.” He warned, hoping to get as far away from any ears that were about to hear their next discussion. He stopped short suddenly, the wind blowing his hair about his face and turned to see Jehan with an unreadable expression covering his face. 

  
“Okay, could you please tell me what the hell is going on?”

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Enjolras ran a trembling hand through his hair, moving to open one of the huge train windows of his room. 

Just this room alone was more expensive and undoubtedly more impressive than anything anyone back at home could afford. 

It felt almost surreal, stood in a room full of all this luxury that if he weren’t about to meet his death, he’d never see. 

_ And  how was Grantaire alive? _

He couldn’t understand. The Capitol had made it clear that he’d jumped to his death before the interviews had been aired. 

And yet, here he was. As his stylist. They didn’t even give him credit for the costumes and designs that he must make for all the tributes. Who  _did_ get the credit, then? He tried to think back and recall the names of any of the Capitol’s stylists but he realised he must have payed even littler attention to anything the Capitol say that he thought. 

_ “And Christ knows if  _ you  _ go and die on me I’d pitch myself off of the Capitol Bridge by the time the games are over.” _

It was strange wording choice, Enjolras thought. The Capitol Bridge, the place they’d said he’d already jumped from. 

_ It sounds like he’d miss me if I died... _

Enjolras mused. Which was odd, really, because Grantaire didn’t know him, right? 

No one really knew Grantaire or anything about him at all because he was here at the Capitol, with everyone thinking he was long since dead. And suddenly Enjolras found himself feeling the anger rising up inside of him again because it wasn’t right! How could they keep him there against his own will? Well, then again it was the Capitol and they did go to extreme measures to get what they wanted. But surely he must have done something exceedingly awful to be kept as a prisoner here, something that could embarrass the Capitol and make them want to refuse as having Grantaire as a Victor. 

Unless....

Unless maybe it wasn’t so awful after all. He knew it could just be his own mind so full of rebellion that was making him think like this, but what if maybe Grantaire had tried to rebel. Said something so outrageous that the Capitol had no choice but to punish him severely. Although, there could be worse punishments, death included, so he couldn’t think why they’d try to keep him there. 

No. Actually no, now that he thought about itdeath would be an escape. Away from the cruelty of the world. And the Capitol knew this. 

So it only begged the question again; 

What did Grantaire  _ do? _

_~_ ~~~~~~~

“They think you’re  _ dead _ _?”_ Jehan gasped, slender fingers covering his mouth. 

Grantaire nodded and sighed deeply, letting a single tear slide down his face. 

“Suicide, actually. Quite ironic, don’t you agree?”

  
”Grantaire.” Jehan said warningly. 

“Right. Sorry.” He made a mental note not to mention earlier today to Jehan. Technically he didn’t need to worry because he _didn’t_ jump, did he? 

  
“I mean it wouldn’t be so bad if  _ someone  _ at least knew,” he said quietly, trying to force down the lump in his throat, “but none of them have any idea.”

“I...” Jehan seemed speechless, which was saying something considering the guy was a poet. “Wait, how wasn’t that the first thing Enjol-whatever-it-was commented on?”

A small bubble of laughter escaped his lips as he shook his head helplessly. 

“Enjolras.” He corrected automaticly, “and I think he was too busy being shouted at by Valjean to notice.”

Jehan raised an eyebrow and smiled, before something seemed to cross his mind. 

“Do you know him?”

Grantaire paused, unsure of how to answer. He couldn’t really outright say that Enjolras was the guy he’d been in love with since he was twelve years old.

“I mean, not directly...”

“But you still knew him?” 

Grantaire sighed and couldn’t keep it in any longer, sure he’d burst if he tried to contain it from yet another person. “It’s him, Jehan! From the districts, it’s  _ him _ !”

Despite not mentioning specially the name of the guy Grantaire had told him he was in love with, he had informed Jehan it was someone from the districts. He actually hadn’t even specified _which_ district either but it seemed Jehan had decided it highly unlikely that it was anyone outside of Twelve. As a result, whenever they watched the Reaping together he would frantically point to ever person possible trying to guess. By now be must have pointed to Enjolras a million times with Grantaire denying it. 

He watched as Jehan’s eyes widened, the truth dawning on him, and Grantaire collapsed against the railings, tears streaming freely down his face now. Years and years of keeping his name a secret and wishing he could see that face just one more time.

“Why has no one ever mentioned this?” Jehan said, a strange calmness overtaking him. “What are they doing to these tributes?”

“God knows. Nothing good, I’d assume.” “You sure he’s not lying?” 

“He’s not a liar. He wants to take down the Capitol more than anyone else. Fucking delirious, if you ask me.” 

“You really need to watch your language,” the other man laughed, rolling his eyes. “And by the way I’m stood literally right here and you’re insulting my dream of a revolution.” 

“Oh I apologise so profusely, Monsieur Prouvaire.” He said, bowing down sarcastically to him. 

“Good. You’d better keep it that way.” Be laughed, but he seemed distracted a little. 

Jehan seemed to be having one of his Plans start to form in his head again and Grantaire shook his own head quickly, willing him not to do anything stupid. 

“Jehan-“

“-I’m going to talk to him.” The other man said, already making his way back towards his the compartments. 

“You aren’t going to tell him are you?” He said weakly, hoping that he could at least keep his dignity before he threw himself off the bridge. Because if Enjolras died, which he most certainly would, he knew there would be absolutely no way of going on. Not even sweet Jehan could stop him. 

“Of course I’m not going to tell him, you idiot.” Jehan laughed, “I just need to know who were dealing with.”

“It’s no use. They won’t let him live.”

“And why’s that?” Jehan said stubbornly, his face stoning over as he folded his arms. “Where’s the fiery boy who won the Games five years ago? Where’s the determination?”

Grantaire didn’t reply. He dropped his gaze and shrugged his shoulders helplessly. 

“That’s not me.” He said. “Not anymore.”

~~~~~~

Enjolras was completely set on finding out what exactly it was that got Grantaire landed here. And if it took him up until the day he was killed, then so be it. Because if  had been an act of rebellion, then he needed to know. 

Just as he thought this, the compartment door was thrown open again and a man stood in the doorway. 

Well, at least Enjolras assumed he was a man. He still appeared young and only at least seventeen, but the fact that he was most definitely not a tribute only meant that he could be a mentor or stylist. 

“Sorry,” he smiled apologetically, “I probably should have knocked...”

“It’s fine.”

Enjolras couldn’t place where he knew this man from; the way his huge eyes glittered as he spoke and the arched lip, not to mention the startling auburn hair seemed all too familiar. And he spoke with a soft voice that seemed to be a strange mix of Irish and American, he just couldn’t think where he could know him from. 

“I’m Jehan, Grantaire’s friend.” He said, sensing Enjolras’s confusion. 

Ah, so he knew Grantaire. Although that still didn’t particularly help him recall where he recognised him. Despite his slender frame he didn’t have that District look about him; his didn’t have that starved expression and slight shake of the hand that hunger usually brought one. But at the same time there was no trace of the Capitol on him. No dyed skin or painfully bright tattoos. 

He looked about as normal as you could get. 

“Oh,” he said, “I’m Enjolras.”

“I’ve never heard that one before. Strange name. I like it, don’t get me wrong. Just unusual.”

“Yes, well ‘Jehan’ isn’t the most common name either is it?” He replied defensively, frowning at the undeniably pretty man in front of him. To his surprise, Jehan grinned widely, sitting down on the edge of his bed. 

“I like you.” He laughed, and it was a musical laugh that warmed his heart, and Enjolras found himself smiling in spite of himself. 

It was that laugh in fact, that seemed to stir his memory; that and the flower tucked behind his ear. “Wait,” he said slowly, “you’re not a stylist are you?”

“Funny you should ask that.” Jehan said suddenly, the smile clearing from his face. “No, I’m not a stylist,” he continued, “although I do take the credit for it.”

Enjolras cocked his head, wondering if he heard him correctly. And then suddenly it dawned on him and he let out a soft,

“Oh.” So that was where he recognised him; from the Interviews where he would be given thanks for his incredible designs. He thought back to when Grantaire said he would be his stylist and realised he’d  _ never  _ seen him get any credit (well he  _ was  _ supposed to be dead) but must do all the work. “It’s Grantaire, isn’t it?”

“You’re smart,” Jehan nodded, “yes, it’s R’s work you see.”

Enjolras took a moment to understand that; what it must be like to see your work get so much admiration and not be able to have any credit, not let people even know you exist. 

“I’ve seen your work in the districts, you know,” Jehan said suddenly, a crease forming between his eyebrows as he frowned. “They broadcast it to the people who work inside of the Capitol-“

Enjolras stood up quickly, head spinning as he thought of all the different reasons Jehan could have to arrest him. He worked for the Capitol,  _ directly  _ for the Capitol, not like Grantaire or Valjean. “You work for the Capitol?”

“Well, yes.” Jehan said calmly, raising his eyebrows, “because then we know their exact weaknesses to bring them down.”

He froze, a giddy feeling overcoming him as he thought of the possibility that the Capitol could be overthrown. How many people were working on this? 

“Enjolras,” Jehan continued, an edge of desperation creeping into his voice as he leaned forwards, “you can’t die in these Games, and listen to me when I say this, because you are exactly who we need to win this war.”

Enjolras nodded, his mind going blank.

“ _ You are exactly who we need to win this war.” _

“I’ll just have to make sure I’m prepared then, I guess-“

“- _Enjolras_. ” Jehan interrupted, eyes wide as he grabbed his hands, squeezing them gently, “you can’t win this once you’re in the arena.”

“I don’t-“

“They won’t let you.” He let out a sigh of frustration and ran a hand over his eyes, “They watch you and you friends, you especially, so that they know  _ everything  _ about you. They’re not going to let you live.”

He paused, “Twelve never win.”

_But why_ ,  he thought.  _ Why _ ?

Realisation struck him like thunder as the truth dawned on him. Twelve didn’t win because  _their mentor was Grantaire_.  They would know he was alive, they must do, so why did Grantaire not know about what the people thought? But the tributes must see him, must know that this man wasn’t dead. But  _ why  _ did they never mention it? .

So that’s why they kept him here, forced to mentor tributes every year that could never win. Watch them die, watch them suffer, feel the guilt. That was a worser punishment than Enjolras had even begun to imagine. 

“ _If_ you  _ go and die on me....” _

He must have seen so many children meet their deaths and have no idea of why they could never win. Almost a fate worse than death itself.

“Enjolras.” Jehan said, desperation creeping into his voice again. “Why do Twelve win the Games?”

“Because they can’t  have  a _winner.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so this is probably going to be longer than I expected...  
> But it’s fine, I guess  
> Thanks :)


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And now he was supposed to be part of a revolution? It was what he’d always hoped would happen one day, and sure, he’d love to be a leader, but he didn’t know how.

_District Twelve could never win._   
  
Which meant _he_ couldn’t win. No matter how hard he tried, how much he fought, he would always die. 

He wondered if Grantaire knew this, or if he just assumed he was a bad mentor. Probably the latter, he thought bitterly.   
  
And then he was struck with yet another baffling realisation. Well, more of a question.  
“Jehan,” he said suddenly, “why doesn’t Grantaire already know that everyone thinks he’s dead?”   
“What?” Jehan said, his brow furrowing in confusion.   
  
“Well surely everyone else who he’s mentored must have mentioned something? It’s not like they wouldn’t know,” he continued, standing up and beginning to pace the room, thoughts flying round his mind.   
  
“There‘s a memorial dedicated to him in the Square.” Enjolras could see the confusion written all over Jehan’s face as he hurried over to where he was stood.   
  
“They’re doing something to the tributes.”   
“But what?”   
Enjolras sighed and ran a hand through his hair, this was becoming a trademark of his now, in distress.   
“I don’t know.”   
  
A moment of silence passed between them, before Jehan sighed and said, “Well, I’m going to head to bed. I’ll see you in the morning?” He nodded and moved towards the windowsill, another thought forming in his head.   
  
“Does Grantaire know me?” He asked.   
  
Jehan froze, his eyes widening   
uncertainly, and he seemed to be unable to decide whether or not to shake his head. “I-“ he started, “Why do you ask?”   
  
_Christ knows if_ you _go and die on me..._

The strange emphasis on ‘you’ seemed to Enjolras like he must know him, must have met him at least or recognise him somewhere. There was definitely something he was missing out on.   
  
_If_ you _go and die on me..._

“I just thought...well, something he said.”   
Jehan raised an eyebrow, his hazel eyes sparkling with interest. “Go on,”  
  
Was it really his place to comment on what other people said? Somehow, Enjolras didn’t think so, so instead he shook his head and cleared his throat quickly.   
“Never-mind. It doesn’t matter.”   
  
Jehan frowned, clearly not believing him, and waiting as if he half expected Enjolras to explain further. When he didn’t, he nodded slowly and smiled.   
“Ah. Okay.”   
  
And just as he was about to leave again, Enjolras called out once more. “What did he do?”   
“I...” Jehan looked uncomfortable, his cheeks flushing noticeably as he diverted his gaze from Enjolras. “You should ask him, not me.”   
  
And with that, he slipped out of the room and Enjolras shut the door as quickly as he could, trying to hold back his unwanted tears.   
  
District Twelve couldn’t have a winner. And now he was supposed to be part of a revolution? It was what he’d always hoped would happen one day, and sure, he’d love to be a leader, but he didn’t know how.   
  
How was he supposed to lead twelve districts into the Capitol when there was almost no chance he was even going to make out out of the arena alive? But Jehan seemed set on making sure it happened, and Enjolras would happily give his own life if it meant a life of freedom to all those who survived...but realistically, he didn’t think he’d live past the next few weeks anyway.   
  
The Capitol were set on killing him in the arena, just like every other tribute from Twelve, and then there was Vivienne to worry about too. He was struck with a sudden strange thought; Jehan seemed overly fixated on himself leading this revolution he was dreaming. But he hardly knew him, in fact he didn’t know him.   
  
And if Enjolras didn’t inexplicably trust this other man, he would say that Jehan was just, in fact, another Capitol worker trying to get him killed.   
  
But there was something about Jehan (maybe his warm smile, or the way his eyes glinted kindly as he spoke) that made him seem trustworthy, and Enjolras knew he needed some kind of help if he was to win the Games. And logically, he knew that was wrong too. He’d learnt you couldn’t trust anyone, even yourself sometimes, not in this world anyway.   
  
However his thoughts were too busy being preoccupied with the many questions about why nobody had ever mentioned Grantaire’s supposed fate to him. And whatever the fuck it was that he had done which had created this whole thing.   
  
Jehan knew. And he was completely aware he could somehow coax the information he needed out of him if necessary, but that felt like betraying Grantaire somehow. Ridiculous, he thought, he barely knew the guy. But still...wouldn’t that be wrong?   
  
Probably, yes. But then again this entire situation was incredibly wrong, so really he knew he shouldn’t care. But he did care. He cared more than he should, and he wasn’t going to let a secret that could possibly help frame this entire revolution (and he’d wanted a revolution since before he could remember)he kept a secret to him, so he would get that information out of Grantaire if it was the last thing he did.   
  
And it could well be the last thing he did, if the Capitol found out he knew.   
  
~~~~~~~   
  
  
Grantaire barely remembered even arriving at the Capitol. Well, he could recall the ludicrously bright outfits and the sickeningly sweet perfumes that seemed to cling to the air, but not really much more.   
  
He supposed he was probably drunk somewhere, in his compartment most likely, but he didn’t seem to have too bad of a headache of a hangover, so he wasn’t sure. Certainly he was tired, but that was only expected if he had spent most of the night lying awake, fearing the dreams that showed him all the ways he could let Enjolras down that would surely haunt him.   
  
Ah. That probably explained his unfocused mind (not that he was really ever focused anyways). Either way, there was probably only a couple of hours until the Opening Ceremony began, and that meant not long until his final costumes had to be completed. But as creepy as it might sound, he’d often imagined how exactly he would dress Enjolras should it come down to this situation, though he has always rather hoped it wouldn’t have to.   
  
But he had no choice over that. They were here, and they needed to be prepared.   
  
In fact, he was so deep in thought that he almost had a heart attack when the door to the dressing room burst open. He started and dropped the bottle he was holding, mumbling under his breath as he cleared the broken pieces of glass away.   
  
“Jehan, you obtuse bastard.” He muttered in the direction of the door.   
“As much as I appreciate that,” a voice replied, amusement laced in every word, “I’m definitely not Jehan.”   
  
Grantaire stood up so quickly he hit his head on the table he was sweeping glass from underneath. He cursed loudly and rubbed his head. “What do you want?” He didn’t exactly say it unkindly, but he did wish he’d been able to come up with something more witty...or at least funny.   
  
“Charming.” Enjolras was smiling though; a smirk tugging on the corners of his mouth, so he didn’t feel too stupid. Instead he found himself grinning widely, and he would have called himself ridiculous, but when did he ever find himself smiling?   
  
“Anyway,” Enjolras continued, his expression changing to one of seriousness, and Grantaire vaguely wondered what he had done wrong. “I need to talk to you.”   
  
Oh no. He knew it was silly, but with his current reputation of causing trouble he didn’t even know about, he felt he’d probably done just that again. He shrugged and folded his arms, waiting to hear what he had to say.   
  
“What are the District Twelve tributes usually like?” That wasn’t what he was expecting.   
“I’m sorry?”   
“What are they like?” Grantaire scratched the back of his head aimlessly, searching for a word he could possibly use. Although to be honest, he didn’t really know.   
  
“I don’t-I can’t really remember, Enjolras.”   
Enjolras sighed frustratedly, sitting down on the table and crossing his arms, which flexed his muscles rather distractedly, and Grantaire had to pull his eyes away quickly.   
“Okay, fine. Will you tell me what you did?”   
  
_Not this again_ , he groaned inwardly.   
It’s not that he didn’t want to tell him, just that it seemed pathetic. And he took Enjolras’s words-he’d surely realise that-and then it would be even more difficult to explain.   
“It’s nothing, Enj. Literally nothing.”   
  
Enjolras rolled his eyes so hard that Grantaire worried they were going to fall out of his head. He raised an eyebrow at the nickname and pushed on. “Oh come on.”   
“It doesn’t matter.”   
“You’re infuriating, you know that?” Enjolras grumbled, huffing loudly.   
  
“Oh, absolutely.” Grantaire deadpanned. “Last question.”   
  
_Uh oh._  
  
“Do you know me?”   
  
Grantaire swallowed nervously, trying to work out a way around that question. He didn’t really want to have to lie.   
  
“I-see well that would depend on-“  
“-Grantaire.”   
_Right_. “Yes...” 

  
Enjolras started, tilting his head sideways. “Wait, you do?”   
He groaned and felt his insides squirm uncomfortably. “Yeah, I guess...” 

“How?” Oh, perfect.   
“Okay. Fine. That group thing you run...Les Amis de L’ABC or whatever?”   
He saw Enjolras nod, hanging on to his every word.   
  
“Okay, well. I used to go to your rallies and stuff...you’re good. Really good. And I did used to believe but...” “But what?” Enjolras pressed gently. Grantaire paused.

“But then this happened.”   
“This?”   
“No one listens, no one cares. Why should they? And then...they killed my best friend too.” He felt his voice break speaking about her, and turned his face away quickly, refusing to cry.   
  
“You mean Eponine?” Grantaire froze. “You know her?”   
“Why do you think I volunteered for Gavroche?”   
“Shit! I never...I didn’t even think...i just thought you were being selfless.”   
  
Enjolras smiled sadly. “We used to help each other around the district, even more after Gavroche grew up a little. She even used to look after Cosette sometimes.” “Cosette?”   
“My sister.”   
“You have a sister?”   
  
That was news. How could he ever give so much up when he had a sister back at home...probably expecting him to return? Or worse: expecting him _not_ to. He had to get Enjolras home now, whether it meant Jehan’s dreams of him leading the revolution happened or not.   
  
Enjolras nodded but didn’t delve further into the subject, swallowing quickly. “Anyway,” he continued, and though Grantaire desperately wanted to know more, he didn’t push, only listened.   
  
“I was wondering why nobody else had ever mentioned...well, any of this?” Grantaire opened his mouth to reply, before finding that the words had been taken from him. Why _did_ no one tell him? He’d mentored them and helped style them...and nobody had said a word.   
  
Suddenly his mouth felt very dry and an uneasy feeling had settled in his stomach. “Holy shit.” He whispered. “They all knew. We all know.”  
“I don’t-“  
“-is there _nothing_ you can remember about the tributes? How they behaved? Anything similar between them?”   
  
Grantaire desperately wracked his brain for any clues, everything sounding far off and submerged underwater. He frowned and shook his head, feeling incredibly useless. “No, I don’t-“   
  
He broke off, a thought forming. “Hang on.” He began routing through the many boxes and draws in the room, scattering it’s contents all over the place as Enjolras watched on perplexedly. He’d seen them last time he was here, although that was a year ago...but surely they’d still be there?   
  
The answer was yes, and Grantaire pulled out a cardboard box full of plain tapes. He called Enjolras over and handed him the box, feeling his stomach do a flip as their fingertips brushed momentarily.   
  
“Now, I don’t know which tapes are which,” he said quietly, for fear of being overheard, “but Jehan found these in the back of one of the Capitol’s Design Rooms.   
  
Each tape is a different game, from the 40th Hunger Games to last years. There’s the opening ceremonies, the first interviews and in the case of the Victors: the Crowning.” He paused to let the information sink in.   
  
“Watch as many as you can before tonight, and if possible the Twelve Tributes, then tell what you find out when you come to be styled tonight.”   
“Why can’t you watch them with me?”   
  
Grantaire grinned widely, “Because I’ve got a costume to put together.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I took so long to upload this chapter!! I had major writer’s block and  
> I just couldn’t get anything down  
> So thanks anyway for reading :)


	6. Chapter 6

Out of the entirety of the words he could use to describe the Capitol, Enjolras couldn’t settle on a single one. 

It was...beautiful, he had to admit; a city of glass buildings and brightly coloured lights-the ideal kind of place. But at the same time everything was too much, too perfect, so that it hurt his eyes to look at. 

Still, he couldn’t ever imagine Twelve looking anything near as alive as this. Not with it’s dull streets and run down buildings, no electricity or any way of communicating outside of the district. 

He sighed and thought back to his and Grantaire’s conversation; Grantaire knew him, attended his protests and meetings. In fact, now that he thought about it, there was always a boy sat in the corner; silent and secretive, never really speaking but always,  _ always  _ keeping eye contact. 

And  _that_ was why he recognised those green eyes! That was what was so familiar about him. 

Enjolras figured it made sense really, and explained Grantaire’s strange awkwardness around him sometimes.  _ It’s cute though, _ he thought vaguely, surprising himself with the sudden thought. Since when did he find people  _ cute _ ?

Well, since he first locked eyes with those piercing green ones last night. 

Oh. 

  
_Oh_. 

No. Now was _not_ the time. And anyway, Grantaire obviously didn’t reciprocate any... _ feelings _ ...that Enjolras was, well whatever it was. And by the sound of it, Grantaire and Eponine seemed to have had some kind of history together, and he definitely didn’t seem to have let go of those feelings. 

So, no. He’d worry about that later. 

Or never. 

But probably later. 

He huffed to himself, flopping down onto one of the squishy sofas in his room. A room larger than his entire house. He was starving, having not eaten the night before simply out of spite and it was only late morning now, too early for lunch. Or whenever it was they were supposed to be eating. 

The box of tapes sat on the sofa next to him, still where he left them, so Enjolras dug around a bit, pulling out a tape marked  ** 48 ** . He wasn’t sure if that was referring to the year of the Games or something else entirely, so he walked over to the huge flat screen tv on his wall, (he could never imagine one of those back home) and fumbled around of the place to insert the tape. 

When he found it, he voice of Felix Tholomyes filled the screen, commenting on the different outfits and costumes of the Tributes. Enjolras could tell it was a while ago, and the number  48  was flashing in bold writing on the front board, confirming that it was the 48th Hunger Games. 

Seeing no real need to watch this particular game, he moved to switch the tape to a more recent one, but the tributes from District Eleven made him stop in his tracks. 

The girl tribute meant nothing to him; he didn’t recognise her at all, but the boy did. 

He must have been around sixteen or seventeen, strikingly handsome with chocolate brown hair. But it was his eyes that really captivated him; sapphire blue with a fiery intensity that made his breath catch in his throat. His skin was smooth and tanned, and he looked so, so familiar but Enjolras just couldn’t think where he knew him. 

But it was the way he frowned, dark eyebrows connecting, not a trace of weakness visible in his features that made the image click. 

His hand flew to his mouth as his mind worked restlessly to try and make sense of 

the scene that was unfolding before him. 

Because this boy was not from District Eleven. 

He would have watched the entirety of the clip if he had the time but there were more important things he had to figure out. Plus, he had a weird feeling of wanting to impress Grantaire and he could do that by finding out what exactly it was that was happening to the tributes from Twelve. 

And within the hour, he was beginning to piece it together. 

Enjolras paused the tv and stumbled out of the room. These tapes must not be supposed to be seen by anyone outside of the games-otherwise they’d know something strange was going on. 

He was so preoccupied that he didn’t even realise there was someone else in the corridor as he stumbled along blindly, in search of someone-anyone, until he collided straight with that very person. 

He was sent flying backwards, tripping over his own feet and landing on his backside, cheeks flushing crimson as he realised just who he’d knocked over. 

“Oh, sorry!” He mumbled, standing quickly up and attempting to brush the dust off of himself feebly. He held out his hand to the other man and felt his heart clench as their hands met. 

Grantaire grinned and took his hand, chuckling softly to himself. “It’s fine,” he laughed. “Are you in a hurry somewhere?”

Enjolras snapped back to reality and grabbed hold of his arm, purposely ignoring the butterflies in his stomach. 

“No-wait yes! Wait I mean...no. Yes.” He cursed himself inwardly, feeling a blush creep up his cheeks. Grantaire however laughed, a deep, rich laugh that made Enjolras blush even harder. 

“Are you busy?” Enjolras said quietly, not wanting to be overheard.

Grantaire raised his eyebrows in astonishment, a grin tugging at his lips. 

“Yes,” he said, “Enjolras I’m halfway through your outfit-“

“-It’ll only take a second.” He interrupted, “please?” 

~~~~~~~~~

So Grantaire, because he really couldn’t say no to the guy, found himself squashed next to Enjolras on his sofa, squinting at the television in front of them. 

“So what is it?” He asked, turning to the other man and sighing. (Not that he really minded being sat so close to him, at all)

“Look,” Enjolras said, pointing to a man dressed entirely in white, dark hair spilling over his shoulders. “Who’s that?”

“How am I supposed to-“ he broke off, the strikingly blue eyes giving it immediately away-he’d only ever seen eyes that blue twice; once on Enjolras and the other on...

“It’s Valjean.” He whispered, grabbing hold of Enjolras’s arm, completely stunned. “Wait what Game is this?”

“Forty-eighth.” He replied, nodding slowly, “But that’s not...he’s not a District Eleven tribute? Otherwise he’d be  their  advisor, wouldn’t he?”

Enjolras shook his head helplessly, leaning back on the sofa. “I know, it doesn’t make sense. But that’s him, definitely?”

“Oh yes. That’s Jean Valjean, one hundred percent.”

They both fell silent, minds working quickly to unravel what it was they were missing. Grantaire couldn’t understand. Valjean was from Twelve, absolutely , _definitely_ from Twelve. So why was he going into the Games as one from Eleven. And if he was crowned the Eleven winner, why was he back here mentoring Twelve? It didn’t make sense. 

Enjolras broke the silence, wandering over to the interactive board on one of the walls. 

He scanned the menu before speaking into the little microphone, a plate of food immediately appearing. He sat back down and glanced at Grantaire defensively,

“What? I haven’t eaten since the morning of the reaping!” 

“Jesus Christ,” Grantaire laughed, shaking his head. “So tell me, what did you find out about the other Twelve tributes?”

Enjolras put the plate of food down quickly, eyes widening significantly as he launched into story. “They all look completely dazed.”

He said, “they talk normally and answer questions fine but there’s something wrong with their eyes. Look-“

He switched the tape to the 79th Games, zooming in on the faces of both tributes. And it was true-the eyes were clouded over, a sort of confusion hidden there. They seemed to be normal though, laughing and talking but with that strange look. 

And it was the same for every other Game afterwards; dazed and confused. 

“They’re being brainwashed for sure.” Enjolras said almost conversationally, the way one would ask about the weather. “I just don’t know how.” He picked his plate back up, about to take a mouthful of the stew, when Grantaire stopped him. 

It looked almost too perfect: the rice too equally shaped, plastic looking and fake. The meat too perfectly cut up into small cubes. It was almost like was  had  to eat it, which would sound strange but this was the Capitol they were talking about after all. 

They wanted him to. 

_ ”I haven’t eaten since the morning of the Reaping...” _

Suddenly it dawned on him, the truth hiting him like a weight. 

“Jesus  _ Christ _ !” He said loudly, knocking the plate from Enjolras’s hand. 

“What the-“

“Don’t eat that!”

“ _ Grantaire _ !”

“No! Listen!” He protested, looking him dead in the eyes. “They’re putting something in that food.”

Enjolras’s eyes widened as the realisation dawned on him too. 

“What’s the first thing any tribute does the moment they arrive on the train?”

“We went for dinner.” Enjolras said quietly, catching on, “but I refused to eat with them. I was so angry-“

“-So they knew you hadn’t. But if they’re tracking the meals-which I’m positive they are-they know you just ordered.”

“Okay, so?”

“So,” Grantaire sighed, “if they think their job is done, the food they give you should be fine. Otherwise they’ll worry it was too much and you won’t remember a thing.”

Grantaire paused to let the information sink in, watching as Enjolras face flicked between hatred, anger and disgust.

“That’s...thats...” Enjolras struggled to think of a word to fit the situation, “you’re telling me that  _ children  _ are having their memories wiped-or altered-or whatever through  food ?” There was so many things that laced his voice that Grantaire couldn’t put his finger on; obviously pure anger, but also a touch of sadness mixed with something else he couldn’t describe...

He swallowed and nodded, wondering how it must feel to have your entire memory altered and not be able to know. To remember the things you wanted to. To  die  without those memories. He just couldn’t imagine it. 

“I know, Enjolras. I know.” He said tiredly. It was cruel, he knew that, but what was there to do about it? Enjolras seemed to have sensed his lack of intenseness because he rounded quickly on him, backing away on the sofa until he was stood up, angrily pacing the room. 

“That’s all you have to say about it?” Enjolras snapped, his nostrils flaring as an angry flush spread across his cheeks. Grantaire knew he wasn’t even even in one of his full fits or anger, and yet he was still positively terrifying; his brows drawn close together and eyes darkened and full of a different type of anger. What was it Eponine had once described him as?

Ah yes. 

_ A charming young man capable of being terrible.  _

“Enj, look. There’s nothing we can do! I mean, at least they’ve not-“

“Not what?” Enjolras flew to his feet like the seat had burnt him, eyes flashing dangerously. “Not killed them there and then? Because I don’t know if you’ve realised or not but there’s this thing called The Hunger Games-“

“-Oh don’t even  _ try  _ and put this on me! Why don’t you try and watch them get killed year after year after  _ every fucking year!  _ If anyone knows what their talking about here, I think it’s me.” His voice had risen to a shout, echoing in the empty room, his temper the same red as Enjolras’s cheeks. “There is _ nothing  _ we can do.” 

“There  _ is  _ something we can do! You know there is. I do, Jehan does, and you do. I’m not sitting around waiting for-“

“-Do you even hear yourself?” Grantaire laughed mirthlessly, “like  _ really  _ hear yourself? The revolution Jehan wants is a  _ dream  _ Enjolras. I don’t care what he told you-it will  _ never  _ happen. And even if it does, you’d have to be pretty goddamn stupid to think you could win against the Capitol.”

“That’s because you don’t live in the Districts anymore!” Enjolras snarled back, a nasty edge creeping into his voice, You’ve forgotten what’s its like! You might not realise it, but living in the Capitol makes you forget just what it’s like to live there. People are whipped to death on a daily basis! People kneel over from starvation, or at the Peacekeepers hands every day! It’s  not  a dream and-“

“Oh what? You’ll lead it? Because I don’t doubt you’ll try and you’ll get yourself killed...”

_ And then where would I be? _ He added silently. 

“If I die, I die. If it means freedom...”

“ Enjolras !” Grantaire said tiredly, suddenly wanting to just leave the room altogether, “you can’t just-just  _ say  _ that!”

“Why not?” The other man answered coldly, his blue eyes as icy as his tone. Anger suited him, Grantaire thought to himself, he seemed like the kind of person to erupt into flames at any given moment. “You wouldn’t know anything but sitting in the corner, would you?”

Grantaire felt his blood turn to ice. How dare he? When he did everything he could to make his Games blow up in the Capitol’s face! It even cost him his freedom in the end. But he did not forget what it was like to live in the Districts; he just knew there was nothing that could be done. And Enjolras needed to realise that. 

“Don’t you fucking  _ dare  _ go there.” He said quietly, voice dangerously low. “You have no idea! No idea of just how much I wanted to-what I wanted-to change!” He was shaking, he could feel it, so he shoved his hands in his pocket to disguise it. 

“What changed then?” 

In a fit of pure anger he stopped dead in front of Enjolras and pulled back his fringe, revealing a scar that ran from his forehead deep into his hair.

“Grantaire-“ Enjolras said quietly, but he shook his head wildly. 

“-Oh, I’m not done.” He snarled.

He pulled his shirt up over his head, for once not caring that this was Enjolras he was stood in front of. He turned around slowly, deliberately, to reveal just his bare back. He heard Enjolras audibly gasp. 

His back which he knew to be covered in a disgusting mess of whip lashes and scars, tissue that never really healed right and scars that still stood out in a vivid purple colour. If he ran a hand over his shoulder he knew the mass of scars would be found there too, even around the top of his arms. 

He slipped back into his shirt, knowing full well his eyes were threatening to spill their tears and turned back to Enjolras, who was stood with a shaky hand covering his mouth, eyes wide and slightly glassy. 

“You want to know what changed? Fine.” He reached into the box of tapes with trembling hands and dug around for the one marked **7** ** 8 ** **.** He threw it at the sofa next to Enjolras, who flinched only slightly. 

“You fucking decide.” He spat, and slammed the door behind him. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Enjolras had never felt worse about anything in his entire life. He didn’t know! He didn’t know that whatever Grantaire had done could have caused so much damage to him. If he had he would never,  _ never  _ said what he did. 

He had a half mind to chase after him but he had a feeling he might get hit if he was to do so. Which, granted, he would deserve. But he figured it was best to let Grantaire cool off before he went looking for him. 

He almost didn’t watch the tape as a way to respect Grantaire’s privacy but...

...but as usual, his curiosity got the better of him. 

Grantaire and Eponine were riding into the auditorium, pulled along in carriages driven by jet black horses, mains and tails plaited and decorated with gold flecks. 

The only word he could use to describe the pair was  _ breathtaking _ . 

Grantaire was a few years younger, the dark circles beneath his eyes not yet there, a spark of defiance in those green eyes. 

He was dressed in pure white; a white shirt and trousers that were studded with diamonds, dark hair glossy and bouncing just below his jawline, threaded with diamonds too. His face was completely clear of any makeup except white eyeliner tinted with gold and little studs of silver either side of his eyes. 

Eponine was dressed similarly: a spotlessly white gown that started off clinging to her beautiful figure but eventually flowed out beneath her, heavily engraved with more diamonds, and silken gloves reaching her elbows. It was a shock to see her like this, back at home she rarely wore anything that resembled a dress, though she looked deathly beautiful here. 

The chariot around them was aflame, the diamonds both were wearing reflecting the fire and casting unearthly shadows on their faces in a way that rendered them almost god-like. 

Enjolras could interpret the message straight away _;_ _ if you put enough pressure on coal, it turns to diamonds.  _

Not true, obviously, but it was a well known message and District Twelve was profoundly known for its producing of coal.

The tape them cut to the interviews, and he skipped along until he reached Grantaire’s. 

The boy that sat in the interviewing seat was so unlike the man he knew that it was almost hard to believe it was him at all. 

He was charming, to say the least, full of witty smiles and a certain aroma of beauty. The audience loved him; tossing roses and hearts at him which he received gratefully and smiled at. 

He was dressed in silver this time as well as white; a short-sleeved shirt that was accompanied by a diamond studded waistcoat, and simple white trousers. His hair was tinted silver at the ends this time, and his eyebrows were interlaces with jewels. Again, it was completely breathtaking and he blew every other tribute out of the water. 

Enjolras didn’t watch the actual games, well highlights of them, because he could already remember them. He wasn’t going to forget how close to death the man he...well, whatever it was he felt about Grantaire, came to. 

So instead, he skipped to the crowning of the Victor. 

This was the part he had desperately hoped was not cut from the tape, and he was relieved to see Grantaire sat on one of the huge red sofas on stage. 

He was wearing a simple white suit with a diamond encrusted tie this time, cheekbones high and prominent from his weeks in the arena. But now there was no trace of the grin that had been plastered across his face last time, whether it had been fake or not, and in it’s place was a stone cold scowl. 

Those piercing green eyes were dull and devoid of life, the huge amount of makeup under his eyes unable to conceal the red rims that tears had left there. This was a boy who’s entire life had been destroyed. 

He barely even uttered a word, only a shake

of the head or a small nod, and Enjolras could see Felix becoming distressed. The Capitol would be the laughing stock of Panem in the Districts now. 

But then he was asked about his final words on being crowned Victor, and that was when something seemed to snap inside of him. 

Grantaire removed the crown from his head, holding it up to the blaring lights. 

And not for a second did Enjolras think he would thank the Capitol in any way, but neither did he expected what he spat next. 

We will rise,” he said, his voice raw with a mixture of grief and burning hot anger that was evident from anyone’s point of view. 

“We will rise and this city will go up in flames and the world will burn. It will burn and you will go down with it. Every single one of you monsters who created this will turn to ash until there is nothing left but the burning, poisonous embers of a city who’s mind was taken over by pacifists!”

Grantaire’s eyes were like pits of fire, burning and glaring hatred at every single person sat in the auditorium, face contorted with rage so that he looked like he could erupt into flame. 

But what struck Enjolras as most odd, was that they were  _his_ words. He remembered writing that very speech and giving it at one of his rallies. Was it possible that Grantaire had paid more attention than Enjolras thought?

Was it possible that Grantaire had not, in fact, given up? Only thought that the people had not taken heed to his words and instead spiralled down...

Because the way Grantaire had shouted, the passion and emotion clear in his voice, was enough to start a revolution-should the Districts hear it. 

_ Enough to start a revolution... _

But just as the thought was beginning to bloom in his mind, the lights on the screen blacked out and the video cut off. But not before there was a muffled thump that was unmistakably the sound of a body hitting the floor and the agonising cries of a voice he knew all too well...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooooo  
> I don’t really know what to say on this one but I always like to have the little notes at the end  
> But yeah  
> Thanks :)  
> (That’s definitely becoming my knew thing)


	7. Chapter 7

When Enjolras arrived at the Prep Room, it was already early afternoon.   
He was dreading running into Grantaire again, though it was inevitably going to happen, so he was relieved when Jehan answered his knock on the door. 

He had a half mind to tell Jehan what Grantaire has said about his ideas but on the other hand he wanted to stay on good terms with Grantaire and he felt like sort of betraying him to his best friend wasn’t the best ideas. 

That, and if Grantaire had already got to a Jehan he did _not_ want a lecture. 

So maybe just avoiding the subject all together would have to do. 

However when he opened his mouth to speak it seemed Jehan had entirely different ideas. 

“Yes, I know about the argument. Yes, I know R has absolutely no interest in the revolution. No, it doesn’t bother me. And no, I’m not taking sides,” Jehan said mildly, pulling him into the middle of the room, “nor am I mad at you for what you said.” 

“Oh.” Was all Enjolras could come up with. “That’s er...okay cool.”   
Jehan hummed in agreement and pointed towards a huge table filled with some of the most incredible looking food he’d ever seen.  
“I’d eat now, since we both know you’ve not had a single mouthful since yesterday morning. 

Enjolras smiled gratefully and hurried over to the table before a sick feeling gathered in his stomach.   
He swallowed and glanced over at Jehan uncertainly, “Are you sure it’s not-“  
“-Oh yes, it’s okay to eat, don’t worry. I had one of the Capitol attendants try it for me first.”  
Enjolras nodded, relieved, and began to fill his plate. 

When he had eaten, and it was more than he’d eaten in his entire life, Jehan pointed to a door to their left. “If you want to shower before R gets here, I’d do it now. You’ve not got long.”   
He smiled at Jehan and wandered into the other room. 

It was quite magnificent, really. A huge glass cubicle-more like a room-stood in one corner, the shower having more buttons and knobs than he’d even ever have time to try out. The floor was white tiled and pristine, a fluffy white bath robe hanging over a railing with a towel. 

Unlike Twelve, the water was hot and not monitored, whereas at home there was only cold water. If you wanted it hot, it would have to be heated over the fire first. Just another luxury the Capitol had taken from them. 

When he was done he dressed in the bath robe, feeling uncomfortably vulnerable, and poked his head around the door.   
Jehan and Grantaire had their backs to him, leaning over various sketches and designs, and he whipped his head back around the door, closing it quietly.   
He didn’t want to go out there dressed only in a bathrobe but he also didn’t really have much choice. So instead he calmed himself down, because really there was no need to be so jittery, and stepped outside. 

He stood sort of awkwardly at first, waiting for them to notice his presence. When they didn’t, he coughed slightly and gave a half smile when both men turned around.   
Immediately Grantaire turned a deep shade of crimson and muttered something inaudibly to Jehan, getting to his feet and looking anywhere but Enjolras. 

Jehan, on the other hand, grinned widely and almost skipped out of the room, flourishing his hand in a vague gesture of goodbye. 

And then they were alone. 

Almost at once, the temperature of the room seemed to drop a few degrees and a tension so thick that it was almost tangible was left.   
Enjolras knew he should say something, after all if he’d known about what Grantaire had said in the interviews he would never have...well, they’d have probably still argued. But he definitely wouldn’t have said quite such cutting things. 

But that was the point, wasn’t it? Grantaire _didn’t_ tell him what happened, well until now, and yet still expected him to emerge fully alive from the Games by the end of it.   
However if he was to win over the Capitol tonight-which he was most reluctant to do-he did need Grantaire’s help. 

“Look,” he said finally, once the strain became too painful. “If I’d known what had happened I would never have said any of those things.” 

Grantaire frowned and continued to keep his back turned. Enjolras couldn’t get the thought of the scars on his back out of his mind.   
“That not an apology, Enjolras.”   
He almost snapped back. Almost. But he’d made this mess this time and it was his job to sort it out.   
“You’re right. I’m sorry. That’s not an excuse for what I did and you have every right to hate me.” 

For a while Grantaire said nothing and Enjolras wondered maybe if he should get up and leave. It wasn’t going to plan. But then Grantaire sighed. 

“I don’t hate you.” 

“I know. And I don’t blame you. I hate me too and-“ 

Oh.   
He blinked.   
“You don’t?”

“No.” Grantaire said slowly, “but I am still mad at you.”   
“Great! That’s alright, that’s..better than I hoped.” 

Grantaire nodded but said nothing, keeping his eyes focused on a spot just past Enjolras’s shoulder. 

He wandered the length of the room, humming under his breath whilst Grantaire sat a chair in the middle of the room.   
“See usually a makeover is required first,”  
Grantaire said loudly, “but there’s not much I really want to change. And I want the audience to recognise you too; no stupid makeup looks or anything?”

Enjolras nodded in agreement, desperate to win his approval. “I just want them to know it’s me, that’s all.”

“That I can do.” 

And three hours later they were stood in front of a mirror, the person looking back at him exquisitely beautiful but absolutely, undeniably _himself._  
It was almost scary to be starting at a reflection that stared back almost unrecognisably, and Enjolras could only gape open mouthed at himself. 

He was dressed in a simple black unitard, long-sleeved and stopping at the ankles with a pair of knee-length leather boots. The whole outfit was slashed with bright red, swirling up around his waist and curling around his arms and legs to give off the impression that he was quite literally on fire. 

His hair was brushed and re-curled so that it appeared to be in its natural style, but sleek and softer, twisted up into a neater version of his usual bun. A jewel encrusted crown was placed in the center of his head, but it was blackened and heavy, like it had been caught in a fire before it reached him. His face was relatively clear of makeup apart from his eyebrows that had been waxed and re-drawn into perfect arches, black eyeliner and a strange powder that was a mix of red and black highlighting the sharp cheekbones of his face. 

“Do you like it?” Grantaire asked nervously, twisting a lock of his hair around his finger and biting down on his lip.   
“I love it.” Was all he could manage to reply, grinning up at him. Before he could stop himself, Enjolras threw himself at him, hugging him tightly. 

He was worried that for a moment he’d crossed some sort of line. Grantaire was _angry_ at him, for god’s sake! What was he doing? He began to pull away, cheeks heating up furiously, but he felt Grantaire’s strong arms finally hold him back. 

He smelt of mint toothpaste and lime, with a strange twist that he couldn’t quite wrap his finger around. But it didn’t matter because it was his smell. It was Grantaire. 

Grantaire laughed gently, so quiet he almost missed it, and the world seemed to come to a standstill. 

Enjolras was so dizzy with happiness for a moment he forgot where he was; he wasn’t going to die within the next weeks, he wasn’t in any danger, he was just here with Grantaire. But then he was hit with reality again and the fear engulfed him like a wave.   
He pulled back, “I’m scared.”   
“Don’t be,” came the reply, though they both knew it was pointless. “They’ll love you.”  
“And if they don’t?”  
“If they don’t love you, they will fear you, and either one is enough to win.”

  
~~~~~~~~~~~

Whether it really was enough to win, Grantaire didn’t know. But he didn’t have time to doing himself now. So instead he guided Enjolras to the huge oak double doors that would lead into the auditorium and tried to pretend like the hug meant nothing. 

Perhaps ‘pretend’ was the wrong word. Certainly it meant nothing to Enjolras, but to himself...well, that was another story and quite frankly he did not have the energy to deal with that right now. 

“My, my, my,” came a voice from behind him, the grin already obvious. He turned around to see Valjean stood there, dressed up just about the most he’d ever been, and with a strange glitter in his hair that had Grantaire not been so accustomed to Jehan’s many ways, he may have questioned. “You really have outdone yourself this time, R.” 

Grantaire chuckled sheepishly and shook his head. “He didn’t need that much work if we’re being honest here.” 

Enjolras scowled deeply and Valjean narrowed his eyes again. “Keep that scowl when you’re out there.” He said quietly.  
“I wasn’t planning on smiling anyway.” 

Grantaire grinned to himself before sighing deeply. “Well, I’d better be off.” He turned to address the older man, “Jehan’ll be here soon?”   
“On his way now.” Valjean replied. 

“Wait you’re not staying?” Enjolras said suddenly, the first flash of uncertainty crossing his face.   
“Well if I’m not technically getting any credit for these outfits then I’m not the stylist. Or the mentor. Which means I have no reason to be here.”  
“R-“   
He raised his eyebrows at the nickname but didn’t say anything. “And under the Capitol’s orders I’m dead, remember? They don’t want me seen. Which, actually, explains why I’ve never been allowed.”

He watched as Enjolras took in this information, his pretty face furrowing back into a scowl. “Oh.” was all he managed. 

“R?” Jehan ran the short distance from the stairs to the doorway, his face covered in the same glittery something as Valjean. Again, Grantaire didn’t question that and was, in fact, more concerned about the confusion in his voice. “R, why are you still here?”

“What do you mean?” Grantaire could feel his heart dropping to his stomach; whatever it was, it couldn’t be good.   
“Everyone’s making their way down right now.”

“For God’s _sake_!” He hissed through his teeth, grabbing his bag from the floor and hanging over the finishing touch to Enjolras’s costume to Jehan. He would know what to do.   
And then he practically sprinted back up to their quarters, praying that nobody had seen him. 

It had happened one year. One of the tributes from Four had spotted him near the training centre and had apparently told their mentor. Thankfully, whoever their mentor was hadn’t believed them but had still reported to the Capitol. Four was one of the wealthier districts and close with the Capitol and it has left him wondering whether they would still have reported if they had been from somewhere like Eleven or Nine. 

Either way, he was not looking to be beaten and tortured again any time soon. He could watch it live on TV and just pretend like he was there instead. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  
Now. Enjolras didn’t get scared easily. He was fine standing in front of a crowd and shouting himself senseless about the inequality of the world, specifically the Capitol, and he could go on a huge rant at this exact point in time except for the huge knot of nerves in his stomach. He didn’t get scared easily, but put him out on display to be reviewed and gawked at and that was an entirely new thing. 

Granted, it wasn’t like that had ever happened before, so if he was getting very technical about it, there was no reason to actually be scared _now._ He could be scared later, when he properly got out there, and that should be the sensible thing to do. 

Unfortunately Enjolras’s brain had decided to completely ignore him and decide that he was, in fact, going to be absolutely, hugely terrified. 

Some people would call it stage fright, (Enjolras would. Enjolras is that person), but most would label it as something on the verge of a panic attack. Or a heart attack. 

(He didn’t mind the thought of the latter. It might put him out of his misery.)

A warm hand came to rest on his shoulder and he whipped around, finding himself face to face with a certain freckly, and somewhat glittery, someone.

“Now not to alarm you,” Jehan said solemnly, with the air of someone who was not being serious or anything other than on the verge of bursting into laughter, “but you look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”  
Enjolras opened his mouth to protest but found himself too shaky to do much more than that. 

“Now in all fairness you may have just caught a glimpse of yourself in that mirror over there, because holy Jesus you look terrified.” Jehan continued, re-arranging the flower in his hair like this was a normal conversation. Then again, Jehan’s job was to supposedly ‘style’ these tributes. It probably was a yearly routine. 

“Ghosts don’t have reflections.” He mumbled lamely in retort. Jehan merely raised an eyebrow and ploughed on.   
“Well, ghost or no ghost, District Eleven has just gone through so we need the finishing touch to your costume.” 

“There’s more?” He found it almost impossible to believe there was anything else that could possibly be added to his costume, but then Jehan handed him a bundle of black material that was surprisingly light.   
“Uh, thanks?” He offered uncertainly. If he had it his way, he’d rather not have to carry around a lump of cloth like it was a child, but he trusted Grantaire’s judgement. Or at least knew he has no other choice. Still. 

“Sometimes you can be so slow.” Jehan said disbelievingly, shaking his head so much it concerned him that it was going to fall of his shoulders. The thought of a headless Jehan terrified him, so he tried again,  
“What is it, exactly?” 

Jehan sighed deeply and pulled the fabric from him, his face twitching with something Enjolras could only describe as excitement. Though he wasn’t sure if he should be encouraged by this or run in the complete opposite direction. 

(Again, he preferred the second option)

“It’s obviously a cape, you idiot.”  
“Oh, obviously.” Enjolras deadpanned, “how could I not have guessed? I’ve always wanted to look like a-sorry, _what?_ ”   
Because after fastening the cape to a clasp on his breast pocket, Jehan pulled out a torch of fire from literally nowhere. But understandably, where it came from wasn’t his biggest concern. 

He didn’t think he stood much of a chance in these Games anyway but surely being burnt almost to a crisp wouldn’t do him any favours. He made a mental note to never, ever trust Grantaire’s judgement again.

“Oh, relax.” Jehan laughed, hazel eyes bright and glinting with something that definitely concerned Enjolras for his own well-being. “It won’t hurt.”  
“Funnily enough, that’s maybe where I think you’re wrong because _usually_ -“  
“-yes, well _usually_ you aren’t at the Capitol are you?” 

And with that he dropped the torch to the cape, which within seconds erupted into flames. 

To his credit, he didn’t shriek as much as he thought he would do. Not much of an accomplishment but still, it was worth something, right? What was really strange, however, was that he felt absolutely no pain. The flames didn’t burn or even feel unpleasant-in fact he felt nothing at all. 

The material wasn’t burning up though so he felt reassured, but when Jehan then tried to set his crown or whatever it was on fire too, he doubted it all over again.   
“Jehan-“  
“-Jesus! Trust me okay?” 

He nodded and swallowed grimly, almost absolutely certain that he was going to loose a lot of his hair. But like before, it didn’t hurt. It didn’t even seem to have any affect on his hair or body whatsoever, given that the flames were basically radiating from him by now. 

From the corner of his eye, he spotted Vivienne hurtling towards him. She was dressed in a black sleeveless dress that followed her figure closely before spiralling out beneath her, the bottom half of her dress engulfed in flames, and like mis crown she wore a tiara that was also set ablaze. The eerie light of the fire cast shadows on her face that made her appear almost god like, fierce. He wondered if that’s what he looked like too, but then again, Enjolras could appreciate beauty when he saw it, and Vivienne was stunning. 

She stopped short, her mouth falling open and he wondered if he actually looked nothing like her at all and instead appeared quite the opposite. Great way to get sponsors, he thought. But then again, Grantaire would never purposely make him look ugly; he was their mentor. Maybe he had something in his teeth, or on his face. 

He reached up sub-consciously and touched his cheek, feeling incredibly self conscious so dressed up. He barely ever wore anything other than an ancient pair of trousers and shirts that were falling apart, and that old red jacket his father had given him before he....well, before he died. 

He remembered vaguely a time when he had been well looked after, had more money than a lot of people in the Seam, but nothing lasted forever, he supposed. 

His mother had always been funny around him. He’d never known why, but he suspected it was because he wasn’t like most kids growing up. He was never interested in toys or play fighting, like most boys he knew. He used to be more of a kid that sat by himself and glared anyone who tried to annoy him into oblivion. He likes books and history-revolutions and rebellions always fascinated him-and that’s now he’d met Combeferre. 

Combeferre wasn’t like him either. He was quiet and thoughtful, strong minded but with the ability to restrain himself that Enjolras had never had. They bonded easily and had become inseparable ever since. Even now. 

But Enjolras’s mother had always been strange around their relationship. They weren’t dating, and they never had. They’d kissed once but neither had thought it would go anywhere in the future, so there had never been a strain on their friendship.   
His mother had always thought he was in love with Combeferre. He wasn’t. He probably never would be, but she didn’t understand that. She wasn’t the most...accepting person. And when she heard the rumours that used to be spread around the classrooms it only fed those suspicions. 

‘ _Don’t sit there. I heard he likes boys.’_  
 _‘That Enjolras kid is weird, make sure he’s not like, into you or anything.’_

It wasn’t a problem anymore. Society becomes steadily more accepting, or at least they realised there’s not really another choice but to suck it up. But she still hated him for it. 

His father used to earn quite a bit of money. He worked for the Mayor and that played to his advantage, but not everyone thought that was fair. Well, the Patron-Minette anyway. 

The cold memory of that horrible day when they received the news of his death seeped into his blood and he shivered involuntarily. 

Standing on the doorstep to his own home, drenched from the pouring rain and knowing there was little to no way they could get by in just his mother’s small wage, his world had collapsed. 

Shot. He was shot. Twice in the stomach, and his killer never being specifically identified or arrested. Everyone knew it was someone from the Patron-Minette, but there was really no way to prove it so it went unsolved. 

And now he was probably going to wind up dead like his father, eyes glassy and unseeing whist all the way back in Twelve, Cosette cried and his mother shouted and there wasn’t enough money or food or anything and...

“Hey!”  
He snapped back to reality, the reality of their situation dawning on him quickly.   
Vivienne was looking at him mildly concerned as she pointed to the chariot they were to make their entrance in.   
“You look...wow,” was all he could manage, half smiling before realising he wasn’t supposed to. Vivienne grinned and a dark crimson flooded her cheeks.  
“You should see yourself.”

He opened his mouth to reply but Valjean was hurrying him into the chariot, a hand on the small of his back. The nerves crept back up again, twisting at his insides and making everything spin. He vaguely heard someone telling him something and should probably have listened but it was too late now and he was to preoccupied trying to swallow down his fear. 

_Three...two...one...._

  
The auditorium was outside and night was beginning to fall. So really, it was a good job they were dressed in fire, and they left a trail of flame behind them that he hadn’t noticed until now. 

A hushed whisper fell over the audience and Enjolras worried that maybe Grantaire was wrong. Maybe they don’t like them.   
But then the sound of cheering filled his ears suddenly. And not just cheering; screaming and clapping with delighting, words of praise and excitement and he swore he heard multiple people saying ‘ _I_ l _ove you’._

  
There were roses being thrown and people crying their names. Their actual names! That they’d bothered looked up in the programme instead of the District. 

They did a complete circle of the auditorium, and then Enjolras caught a glimpse of themselves in one of the huge screens.   
They weren’t just beautiful, they were _breathtaking_! The flames danced around them, giving them an almost inhuman beauty, shadows flickering across their faces. 

The audience was going wild and it was all he could do not to grin and wave like a lunatic, like he’d seen the other tributes do in other years of the game. But he didn’t, he stayed stony-faced until they burst back through their one of the twelve doors that lined the arena. 

The first face he saw was Jehan’s, and he knew that he was probably being broadcasted across the country. Jehan pulled him into a tight hug, Valjean no where to be seen, and whispered in his ear, “Well done! You were so amazing!” He pulled back and grinned widely. “If you want to go and find R, i’d do it now.” 

And Enjolras was nodding and smiling but the adrenaline had died down again. He knew they’d probably just won a lot of sponsors, but it also meant that he’d taken them from other tributes. 

He wondered what Grantaire thought about the ceremony-he was a pretty self-deprecating person so he probably could find some fault or flaw in his work. Either way he felt confident now, though a little guilty, because he did have a good shot at winning. 

Well as a good of a shot as he could whilst being the Capitol’s main target in the arena. Although maybe if the audience liked him enough, which could be a challenge since he wasn’t particularly known for being a likeable person, the Capitol might relent and let him play the Games like any other tribute. 

He knew he was lying to himself. And anyway he needed some other sort of plan to win the Games with too, since playing by the rules was risky and he had an unfortunate habit of opening his mouth when it wasn’t needed and well...he knew how that would turn out. 

Enjolras hadn’t realised he’d been walking until he reached Grantaire’s room and came face to face with his door. He knocked once, quite tentatively, because he didn’t know if he was asleep or not. 

When no answer came he tried again, louder this time. But still nothing. He knew it was a possibility that the other man was asleep, but he highly doubted it considering he was likely to receive a million calls from Jehan or Valjean on his designs. He sighed frustratedly, almost completely sure he was awake and avoiding him, so Enjolras called through the door,   
“Grantaire?”

When no reply came for the third time, he knew something was up. His knocking would have been enough to wake him by now. 

Perhaps Grantaire was angry at him? Presumably from their fight earlier, he supposed. He’d apologised but maybe R hadn’t taken it that way?   
Either way if he was angry or whatever, it was probably best to leave him alone and ask him in the morning. 

As rounded the corner to his own room, he bumped into poor Jehan and almost knocked him back down the stairs.   
“Woah,” Jehan laughed, grabbing hold of the railing, “I get I tried to set you on fire but do you really hate me that much?”   
“Sorry! Sorry, are you alright?”  
“I’m fine, don’t worry,” 

They stood silently for a moment before Jehan seemed to regain his thought process, “are you going down to R’s tonight?” He asked, looking down at his phone quickly.   
“What? Oh, no I think he’s asleep.”  
Enjolras replied, yawning briefly but freezing under Jehan’s confused stare. “What?”  
“He’s not asleep. He just texted me now.”

Oh. 

Enjolras tried his best to hide his hurt but he knew it must at least register on his face because Jehan put his hand on his arm gently. “Hey, you okay?”  
“M’fine.” 

And he turned and shut the door to his room, heart pounding irrationally fast. He had no reason to be upset, no reason to see Grantaire as anything other than his mentor because that’s all he was. They weren’t friends and they barely knew each other. 

And it was as simple as that. 

Except it wasn’t. Because he was hurt that Grantaire didn’t think to see how he was. Not that he needed to, but shouldn’t a mentor do that?   
  
Whatever. He didn’t care.   
  


(He cared very, very much). 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, sorry I took so long to upload I literally have no rhythm in posting this  
> I probably should...that could be a good idea...  
> Anyway, thanks :)


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’m Courfeyrac,” he smiled earnestly, and all Enjolras could think about was that this boy-Courfeyrac-was probably going to be dead by the time the month was over.

Combeferre did not make decisions at random. He figured it was better to think about the situation and apply whatever was most fitting to it, that way there was less chance of people getting hurt in the process.

He sometimes wondered how Enjolras and himself had managed to stay friends all these years; they were so different. Enjolras wasn’t particularly loud unless they were at rallies-in which case he was-and neither was he. But Enjolras was also very quick tempered and likely to make rash choices in the heat of the moment, whereas himself would think levelly, not loose his temper as quickly and was certainly not as terrifying as his best friend was.

But sometimes he reasoned that this was the exact reason they were _still_ friends. They kept each other up, being like a second mind to each other to help and guide the way and maybe that was why they’d come so far. 

So no, Combeferre did not make random decisions. That was why he’d decided to call off the ABC meetings. They weren’t a particularly large group; himself, Enjolras and a few other people from the Seam, but at rallies the crowds could gather in hundreds.

He’d decided to stop the meetings to give Enjolras a better chance. He knew there was only a slim chance that he would make it back anyway, but he reasoned that if they stayed low, didn’t cause any damage, maybe the Capitol would think they’d given up.

Obviously he knew this was not what Enjolras would want, but Enjolras tended to power through things with an idea of a new future in his mind, so maybe it was best. He knew the Capitol were aware of their protests, and he was hoping perhaps a few of even the districts, so maybe if they didn’t disrupt anything for a while, he’d stand a better chance.

If, and it pained Combeferre to think this way but it had to be done, Enjolras did not make it back, he knew that himself and the rest of Les Amis de L’ABC would fight pretty much to their deaths to avenge their leader’s. And if Enjolras  _ did  _ make it back...well, he assumed they would probably be even more successful as a Victor is a good person to listen to.

He wondered how Enjolras was doing. He was certainly some kind of subject of talk in the districts-it wasn’t often someone got quite a reaction as he had-and Combeferre was praying that it could mean he stood a chance. Even a slight one.

He didn’t know the girl, he couldn’t even remember her name, and usually he would be sad to see such a young person forced to be killed. Well, not really young. She looked around sixteen but compared to most of the tributes this year, she was probably one of the youngest. But if her death meant Enjolras’s survival...

Usually he didn’t think this way. But the Capitol affects even those who aren’t picked and may never be. Himself, for example. He was eighteen now, meaning that this year was his last to be eligible for the Reaping, like most people he was friends with. His only concern was Gavroche. It was unlikely his name would be drawn again, but who would there be left to volunteer should it happen. Or Cosette, Enjolras’s sister. 

Well, he’d say they’d just have to hope, but the odds had definitely not been in anyone’s favour recently.

~~~~~~~~

It was still dark when Enjolras woke up, dew covering the Capitol Grounds and a chilly breeze hanging in the air. He blinked a few times to get rid of the hazy blur obscuring his vision and rolled over, squinting at the clock on the wall.

_ 5:53am _

Ah. Well, he’d got a few hours at least. That was an advantage of living in the Districts- everyone was always in some sort of hurry so he was by far used to living off only a couple hours of sleep. He slipped out of bed and dressed silently, deciding to see he would be able to get up onto the roof to watch the sunrise. 

The corridors were silent. Not a single person in sight and everything eerily quite in the darkness. Enjolras shivered and wished he’d thought to wear a thicker jacket, trying to remember where he’d seen the fire exit up to the roof earlier. He was sure it had been near the water fountain and wandered around the empty hallways for a while before he rounded a corner and found himself exactly there.

Surprisingly the door wasn’t locked. He’d thought it might have been to stop people like himself going up at night and even some others from trying to...well...

Suicide was always an easier option in the Games. Although he’d not seen any tributes ever successfully manage to do so...perhaps there was some kind of shield or something preventing it. He’d say it was the Capitol caring even in the slightest but he knew it just wasn’t true. More likely that they just wished to see them meet a more gruesome and evil end.

Pushing these thoughts from his mind before he got and angry and did something stupid, Enjolras climbed up to the rooftops, taking in a deep breath of the sweet air.

The roof was decorated like a garden; covered in a layer of grass with pretty flowers in shades varying from soft pink to electric blue in wooden flowerbeds. There was even a small patio area with a fountain and a greenhouse growing roses.

He sat down on the edge of the roof and looked up at the stars. It sounded stupid, but he was glad they were the same stars he could see from home. It reminded him that there was still hope, there was still chance and-

“It’s Enjolras, right?”

An unfamiliar voice cut through the silence of the night, and he turned quickly around, expecting some Capitol attendant ready to drag him back inside. 

What he didn’t expect was to see a boy of the same age stood behind him, shifting his weight unconsciously between his feet.

He was strikingly attractive; darker skin and huge chocolate eyes that sparkled with a certain friendliness. He had dark brown hair that stuck up in all directions and only added to the mischievous look about him. The boy was dressed in a pink t-shirt and bright yellow jeans, which was a vivid look on its own, but his cheekbones and forehead were decorated with a metallic powder that was strategically designed to look like scales. Gold eyeliner lined his under and on his eyes, a similar golden coloured tint to his lips.

Enjolras frowned but nodded, wondering how this other boy knew. When he voiced this question he received a laugh, the bit sitting down beside him heavily. 

“It’s not only the Capitol who hear about the absolute chaos you cause, you know?”

Enjolras froze, wondering if he’d heard correctly. “I’m sorry?”

The boy grinned and held out his outstretched hand, “I’m Courfeyrac,” he smiled earnestly, and all Enjolras could think about was that this boy-Courfeyrac-was probably going to be dead by the time the month was over.

He could be wrong, however, and either Courfeyrac could win the Games or turn out to be some kind of vicious killing machine, but something about his soft featured and willingness to befriend him made him think otherwise.

“So what did you mean?” Enjolras pressed on, rubbing his hands together to try and get his blood flowing again. “About the Districts?”

“Oh, yeah,” Courfeyrac hummed, leaning back on his arms and turning his face to Enjolras’s. “They show you all the time in the Justice Buildings on these massive screens and stuff. None of us really know what’s going on but _I_ think if you were to start an uprising a lot of people would follow you.”

His bluntness surprised him. He was very straightforward and Enjolras liked it.He hated when people started a conversation and then tried to back their way out of it or drop hints subtly. If you’re going to say something, say it. 

“Do you think so?”

Courfeyrac hummed in agreement, rocking backwards on his hands slightly.

“How much chance do you think we have?” Enjolras whispered, “if we really,  _ really  _ wanted this.”

He turned to face him fully, a small smile playing on his lips. 

“Well given the fact that I didn’t actually know your name until I looked it up in the programme but have literally heard you described as ‘a pretty blonde kid with a scary-looking face,’ I’d say you are pretty well known.”

Oh.

“Where are you from?” He asked. 

“District Four.”

Four was one of the bigger districts, typically a Career District. Although he could probably have guessed from the strong way his body was built and the fact that he seemed much more well-fed than most people. That also explained the scales on his face; where Twelve specialised in coal mining, Four fished.

“Ah, yeah I probably could have guessed from the makeup,” Enjolras smiled, waving his hand in the vague direction of his face.

“Makeup?” Courfeyrac tilted his head and frowned, as if he was trying to work out what Enjolras was taking about. “What makeup-oh  _ shit  _ I forgot to take it off, didn’t I?”

His hand jumped to his face and came away glittery. He sighed and shook his head, curls bouncing along with it. 

Enjolras laughed and couldn’t help but think how much Combeferre would like this guy.

“Have you ever heard of Les Amis de L’ABC?” He asked eventually. If he was well enough known, perhaps his group could be too. It was definitely a thought, he mused.

To his disappointment, Courfeyrac shook his head slowly. 

“I don’t think so...is it a group or something?”

“It’s something we set up back home, that’s all. I’d hoped maybe the Capitol had got wind of it, you see.”

Courfeyrac hummed softly, before turning to Enjolras with a spark in his eyes. They were slightly glassy, as if he was trying to hold back tears. “You know, I’m not planning on winning this.”

Enjolras’s stomach dropped. Courfeyrac could have so much potential-he was definitely attractive, and that always came in helpful in terms of sponsors, and he looked strong enough to wield a weapon. If he really wanted to, Enjolras knew he could win...

He didn’t reply, only breathed out deeply through his nose. He knew Courfeyrac sensed his disapproval because he stiffened and continued on. 

“And I don’t think you should either.”

“What?”

That could mean a lot of different things. It could mean that he had a friend or someone he wanted to win instead. It could mean he was simply tricking Enjolras and hoping that he himself could win. But it could also mean that this whole time he was just trying to get information out of him, and really wanted him dead. Enjolras knew he could be dramatic, but he was suddenly wary of the other boy. Not afraid, but wary.

“I don’t think you should win.”

“So you want me dead?” 

Courfeyrac raised an eyebrow. “If I wanted you dead I would never have mentioned the districts starting to plan their uprisings, would I?”

Enjolras froze, heart thumping in his chest. Uprisings? Would that mean the people could be easier to rally than he had ever thought? Would they be willing to listen? If the uprisings began to take place now, the whole plan-and maybe even  _ revolution _ \- that Jehan dreamed could possibly happen...

“You didn’t say anything about uprisings.” He said sharply, not wanting to fall into a trap of any sort. 

“Oh, didn’t I?” Courfeyrac said slowly, deliberately, a plan obviously forming in his mind as he grinned widely, eyes glinting mischievously. “Well I guess you didn’t hear it from me.”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying that if somehow the arena was destroyed this year, we wouldn’t  _ need  _ a winner. People would need to die. And I think we both know exactly who we need do that _.”_

As he left, Enjolras could hear him humming under his breath, a tune that sounded strangely familiar;

_Do you hear the people sing? Singing the song of angry men?_

But by the time he turned around Courfeyrac was gone, and there was no more noise than the whispering of the wind and the sounds of the city streets below.

Did he mean him? Enjolras thought so, but Courfeyrac knew almost nothing about him...so perhaps he could be talking about someone like Jehan? Maybe people in the other districts-the ones that got more information from the Capitol-somehow knew what Jehan was planning. Maybe he told them?

However that didn’t seem likely. Surely if he needed Jehan’s help, he would have gone to him. What help could Enjolras be otherwise? He sighed in frustration and wished he had someone he could talk to. 

There was the obvious, Jehan, but he was busy being all cosy with Grantaire. Granted clemency they had been friends for much longer than Enjolras had known him (a few days, to be exact) but if he was his mentor, shouldn’t he be making more of an effort?

He was struck with a sudden horrifying thought:  _what if Grantaire knew he liked him?_

Oh. So  _ that  _ was what he had been feeling. 

Honestly, he wasn’t that surprised. Now that he thought about it, it was quite obvious. He had never been the best at subtlety and he had probably not gone around hiding it well either. Shit.

So maybe if Grantaire knew, it was making him uncomfortable and  _ that  _ was why he was ignoring him? He’d been here literally two days and he’d already managed to make things awkward. This was why Combeferre was better at handling situations then he was and...well, what he wouldn’t give to see Ferre’s face right now?

He wished he was here with him. Actually, no he didn’t. That would just make things even harder to deal with in the arena, and he certainly didn’t wish Ferre was here  _ instead  _ of him. So what would Combeferre do?

Well,  _ Combeferre  _ wouldn’t have fallen for a cynic who can’t stand him in the first place.  _Combeferre_ would take in his opponents, find their strengths and weaknesses and try to befriend them. Huh. Well, he’d done pretty much the opposite since he arrived and he was definitely not a people person so that plan was out the window.

Although, he  _ had  _ managed to speak to Courfeyrac. Not really of his own accord, but it still counted, right? In fact, Combeferre would probably like him, think he was funny. Maybe he could try and get close to Courfeyrac after all...

So what would Combeferre do about Grantaire? Well first of all, he’d have never argued with him. Which obviously Enjolras had already done. And second he’d think about whether he liked anyone else before making a move. Not that Enjolras was  going  to make a move! Absolutely not. No way. No. He was not adding the strain of a relationship onto everything else right now.

And anyway, Grantaire probably liked someone else. Someone like...

Realisation sunk onto him like a weight.

Someone who was friendly, funny and actually knew him. Someone who he cared about and didn’t lie to.

Someone like Jehan....

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“So you pretended not to hear him?”

Grantaire groaned and flopped back onto his head, his head still pounding and eyes sore and red. “Please, Jehan. Don’t remind me of it.”

Jehan, however, sighed and rubbed at his eyes tiredly before crossing the length of the room and perching on the end of his bed.

“Look, R,” he said softly, “why don’t you just talk to him?”

“And tell him what? ‘Hey! Enjolras! Guess what, I’m so madly in love with you and I get you can’t stand me but, you know, what do you think?’” He laughed hysterically, the pain so obvious in his voice even to himself that it made him cringe inwardly. “Did you  see  the way he looked at Vivienne?”

Jehan scoffed, but it sounded half-hearted and unsure, like he was desperately trying to convince himself it was true. 

“I mean look at him!” Grantaire rambled on, unable to stop himself. He’d kept it in for so, so long now. “He’s so fucking _gorgeous_ , Jehan! He’s just so...so...

I mean he’s probably straight, you know. I bet he is! I bet he fucking likes Vivienne and he  _ should _ ! She’s, she’s so pretty too and, shit, Jehan,  _I’m so in love with him_.”

The panic and stress bubbled up inside of his chest and he released a breath he didn’t even know he was holding. He ran a shaking hand through his hair and tried to ignore the fact that his face was obviously soaking with tears.

Jehan bit his lip uncertainly and Grantaire would have felt bad for putting so much strain on him, but all he needed right now was Jehan.

Enjolras but that wasn’t really an option at the moment.

He curled up next to his best friend and tried to keep the sobs down, although when they did Jehan didn’t say a word, only pulled him closer and whispered into his ear. 

In retrospect, he probably should have realised that by ignoring Enjolras earlier he definitely had decreased his chances of even friendship. He had been obviously awake and the other boy had known that.

It didn’t really matter anymore. He didn’t know how long he’d be able to swallow his feelings and fake it all. He’d probably end up spilling his guts to Enjolras, who would laugh in his face and walk away.

No. No, he wouldn’t. Enjolras was a kind person, he would never do that. He would likely blush a brilliant red and twist the sleeve of his jacket uncomfortably before telling him it was okay. He didn’t reciprocate but he didn’t judge. The fact that he even knew that, could imagine that, was scary.

And anyway, Enjolras was probably going to end up dead in the arena. He didn’t doubt his strength or willingness to kill someone to protect them, he did however doubt that he might protect himself. Not out of carelessness, although that was a definitely possibility, but because he was so stubborn to not play by the Capitol’s rules he may just himself killed in the process.

“He’s going to die, isn’t he?” Grantaire whispered. His voice was raw and cracked and interlaced with so much pain that he felt almost stupid. He just couldn’t find the energy to care. He looked up and saw the sadness that swirled around in Jehan’s eyes.

“No. He’s not going to die, R.” 

But there was so much uncertainty that showed on his face, even when he tried to mask it. He half smiled but it didn’t quite reach those hazel eyes. 

“You promise?” He asked.

“...I promise.” 

The pause gave it away. He hesitated before he spoke and in that small second, the fear and truth showed on his face. Grantaire felt his stomach sink but pretended it was okay.

Enjolras was going to live. 

He had to. 

When he finally fell asleep, he didn’t know. But when he woke again, he was still curled around Jehan, who’s face was nuzzled into the crook of his shoulder, auburn hair flowing all over the pillow. He looked so peaceful that Grantaire didn’t want to wake him.

He felt such a mess. He knew that his eyes would be red and puffy and that his hair was definitely going to be worse for wears. His head felt too clogged up and the bright morning light stung his eyes.

He rubbed at them lamely and rolled over to prod Jehan awake. 

“Hey,” he whispered. He was surprised at how light of a sleeper Jehan was, because he almost immediately opened his eyes and smiled up at him. 

“Hey, R.” 

There was a knock at the door and both men turned their heads in unison towards it. 

“Come in!” Jehan called sleepily, resting his head on Grantaire’s shoulder. 

But when the door opened he felt his heart stop. 

“Hi, sorry to disturb you but...” 

The speaker trailed off, a short burst of breath catching in his throat.

Blue eyes widened and inexplicably seemed to fill with tears, although maybe it was just the light, and blonde hair seemed to glow in the morning sun. He seemed smaller and more vulnerable now, blinking quickly with his cheeks flushed pink.

“I-I’m sorry. Am I interrupting something?” 

Enjolras managed to choke out, seeming to have considerable trouble swallowing. 

Grantaire looked to Jehan in confusion, unsure whether to be worried that Enjolras seemed so distressed or not. However all of the colour had drained from Jehan’s face, his eyes wide and mouth hanging slightly open. It was the first time he’d ever seen him so speechless. 

“No. I mean we’re not-I’m not-“

Grantaire tried to splutter out, catching on to what Enjolras must be thinking. “Enjolras-“

“Valjean wants you both down for breakfast in five minutes.” Enjolras said quietly, avoiding the eye contact that Grantaire was desperately trying to maintain.

“Enj-“

But the door slammed shut the next second, and with it he thought he heard a muffled sob. 

  
He turned to Jehan in bewilderment, shaking his head. It was too early to be so confused and get Jehan seemed to know exactly what was going on.

A shaky hand covered his mouth as he trembled slighting. 

“R,” he said carefully, “R, I don’t think Enjolras likes Vivienne.”

“No,” He replied, feeling like he was slipping underwater as the truth dawned on him, breaking his heart into another thousand pieces.

You’re right. I think he likes you...”

He didn’t see the exasperated look on Jehan’s face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :(


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Red, the blood of angry men  
> Black, the dark of age has passed  
> Red, a world about to dawn  
> Black, the night that end at last

Breakfast was unusually quite. 

Enjolras didn’t speak unless he was spoken to for fear that he might burst into tears. 

He knew it. He had fucking known and yet tried to pretend like it was all in his head. 

Whether Grantaire and Jehan were official or not, they were still sleeping together. 

It was stupid, he knew that. He barely knew Grantaire at all so he had no reason to be this upset about it. 

But he couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something going on that he didn’t know. Something he probably should. And maybe that was why he remained so quiet, glaring at the bread rolls on his plate that he hadn’t touched. 

Jehan and Grantaire kept glancing at each other uncertainly, like they were worried someone was going to find out.

Enjolras scoffed in spite of himself. It’s not like he was going to publicly put them to everyone. Did they think he would? 

Suddenly he felt sick to the stomach with the thought. Would they really think he was capable of that? After all, that was how he’d been outed himself; some bastard from the merchant announcing it on the speaker in school.

He shivered at the memory, remembering all of the torment and abuse his classmates had hurled at him in those first few years. 

He rubbed his temple and continued to glare at his food, mind so far away that when Valjean spoke to him the first time, he didn’t hear. 

“ _Enjolras_.” He felt the sharp prod of an elbow and looked up to see the rest of the table looking at him expectantly. 

“What?” 

“I  _ said _ , What’s wrong with you today?” Valjean sighed, drumming his fingers on the table. He looked tired, and had Enjolras not caught Courfeyrac’s eye from across the room, he’d have not said what he did next.

This was the first time he’d seen Valjean since the Opening Ceremony. He’d not bothered to ask how it had gone, although to be fair he’d probably already seen it. 

Instead of answering his question, Enjolras leaned forwards on the table and locked eyes with him, not even blinking.

“Why are you mentoring District Twelve?” 

Grantaire let out a sharp breath but Valjean didn’t seem fazed at all, barely even batted an eye. He raised an greying eyebrow and stopped drumming his fingers. 

“Well I’d have thought that answer would be quite obvious, wouldn’t you?” His voice was calm and gave no obvious clues away, but for some reason this only angered Enjolras even more. 

“Why are you lying?” He snapped. “Why won’t you tell us the truth?” 

“Enjolras-“ Jehan interjected, grabbing his arm from across the table.

Normally, he would have stopped. Tried to calm down. But today he was angrier than usual, irritation bubbling so close to the surface, so instead he ignored Jehan and carried on. 

“I’ve seen your tape. I know you’re not from Twelve, Grantaire-tell him!”

He looked to Grantaire who was shifting in his seat uncomfortably and avoiding eye contact with anyone. He stirred his spoon around in this bowl for a while before looking up again. 

“I mean, yeah. It was-I don’t know-you were in the forty-eighth games, right? And well, you were a tribute from Eleven...”

Valjean swallowed quickly and stood up from the table, beckoning for the rest of them to follow him. Grantaire and Jehan were out of the room in a flash, hot on his heels, but Vivienne turned to him and sighed. 

“Are you going?” 

Enjolras nodded and weighed his words carefully, wondering how to put them. 

“Yeah,” he said, “I’ll be there in a second.” 

He watched her leave, waiting until the door closed behind her, before walking over to where Courfeyrac was pouring himself a jug of water. He purposely crashed straight into him, sending both men and the water jug crashing to the floor with a loud bang.

“Ah, shit dude!” Courfeyrac groaned, but he didn’t seem angry. In fact, there was a slight hint of amusement audible in his voice. 

“I’m so sorry.” He said quietly, leaning forward so that he was practically whispering in Courfeyrac’s ear but able to make it look like he was picking up the shards of broken glass. 

“Meet me in the hallway in a minute.”

And as quick as that, he was up and out of the room, trying his best to ignore the pairs of eyes that were burning into his back. 

When he opened the door, the conversation immediately stopped, every head turning to face him. Fear flashed momentarily in each of their eyes before their faces relaxed again, realising who it was. 

“Why are you soaking wet?” Valjean deadpanned, obviously having no interest whatsoever in the real reason. 

“Uh-“

But he was broken off by another person appearing in the hallway.

“Enjolras, what are you-“

Courfeyrac stopped abruptly, eyes widening as he gave a nervous laugh and swallowed.

Valjean narrowed his eyes, glaring daggers at Enjolras, who completely ignored him, and made to move forwards. 

“No, it’s okay!” Enjolras told them, grinning widely. “I invited him.”

“You did what?” Valjean snapped, drawing himself up to his full heigh and fixing him with a deep glare. 

“I invited him.” Enjolras repeated cooly, refusing to back down. He was bored of being intimidated by this old man. 

“Look, it’s okay. We can trust him.”

It took an excruciatingly long time for Valjean to do anything other than resent the other boy, but eventually he agreed on letting him know so long as his mentors never found out. Jehan immediately took to Courfeyrac’s cherry persona and grinned up at him and Grantaire found him hilarious. 

“So, then,” Courfeyrac said after a while, cracking his fingers and exhaling loudly, “what’s all this about.”

They found out that around the time of the 46th games, two years before Valjean won, there was a huge incident in Eleven that caused the population to be cut by at least half.

District Eleven was huge, and it still is now, but that was an absurdly large number to loose so of course, the Capitol had to interfere. 

Some of the rebels in the district had come up with a plan, a course of action to defy the Capitol. They thought that if Eleven’s population was too small, the Games wouldn’t be able to continue. Obviously they didn’t expect it to all happen at once, but if the population gradually became smaller, they couldn’t go on. They would have to be cut, which would result in the other districts rebelling: if Eleven didn’t have to continue, neither did they.

It was more of a suicide mission, it turned out. A match was lit inside of an old mine, covered in coal dust and flammable debris. Obviously that mine exploded and with it, half of Eleven’s people inside. Any Peacekeepers near the scene were eliminated too, giving the people more chance to get themselves ready for the Capitol’s retaliation.

The word spread that anyone currently not expecting children should keep it that way so that the population couldn’t increase again. It was something the district as a whole could agree on, and it would have worked should the Capitol had not found out.

They ordered that any child, man or woman who was taken in for a whipping or any other crime punishment in any of the districts were to report to the justice building immediately. These people-and mostly children-were shipped off to Eleven without a chance to say goodbye to their family. 

No one was told where they were going, although it became apparent once kids from other districts started being chosen in Eleven’s reapings.

“So they sent you to  _ another district! _ _”_ Enjolras said incredulously, his mind reeling from all the new information. How could he have not known this! How could they take children! 

Valjean nodded solemnly, the trace of a tear being wiped away from his cheek. There was nothing in his eyes except pure, undeniable fury.

“That’s...thats..” but he was lost for words, left speechless by the true reality of those shipped away. 

“-Barbaric.” Jehan interfered, silent tears slipping down his cheeks. 

But another thought was already forming in his mind, one he could see was dawning on Grantaire too. 

“What did you do?” They asked in unison. They glanced at each other quickly, some spark of something Enjolras couldn’t place flirting between Grantaire’s eyes.

Valjean looked down at the floor. “Nothing. They started introducing penalties for things that weren’t even real! I was caught outside of curfew-“ he spat the last word out with so much venom that it was clear he had done nothing to deserve this, “-and that was it. No goodbyes. Nothing.” 

“So Eleven is angry?” Vivienne said suddenly, the trace of a satisfied thought flickering over her face. “And if this information got out...it could bring the Capitol down.”

Enjolras thought it over, weighing the options. Certainly it could, should it be announced live to the world. But how?

Perhaps the interviews? Yes! He couldn’t be cut off because the interviews  had  to be televised in order for the Games to go ahead. That gave them two days to work out how to put it out there without President Javert realising what they’d said, three days until the Games began.

It could work, he realised, and give the districts a chance to revolt during the Games.

Suddenly he was filled with a sort of exited fear; it could happen. It could really happen! And if, like Courfeyrac said, they could find a way to destroy the arena from the outside...

Jehan seemed very partial to that particular idea, wanting more than anything to keep as many lives as he could. So the idea was set, the plans beginning to be considered.

They could really win. 

~~~~~~

They couldn’t win, Grantaire knew that. Jehan was blinded by enthusiasm and Enjolras was too selfless to think about what it could mean for him. What he could loose. 

His life. Enjolras was going to loose his life because he was so, _so_ intent on making surethat everybody else had a better chance. He admired him for it, there was no doubt about that, but Grantaire just couldn’t understand how once person could have so much fire inside of them.

It suddenly hit him just how hard Enjolras’s death was going to affect him. He couldn’t loose him, couldn’t watch him die not knowing how much Grantaire cared. How much he loved him. 

He didn’t expect Enjolras to return these feelings. Him and Jehan already knew that he was in love with Jehan. He’d made that clear with how he reacted towards finding them this morning. 

But if anything, now was the time to tell him. When he’d had probably too much to drink, or maybe he was just running high on adrenaline, but he somehow felt like he wouldn’t chicken out. And if he left it any later, he just might.

So that was how Grantaire found himself stood outside of Enjolras’s door half an hour later with a pounding heart.

He supposed he must have knocked, or at least made some attempt at it, because the door swung open and Enjolras stood in the doorway. There was a light frown covering his face, like he didn’t understand why Grantaire was here, but he didn’t say anything. 

After a while, he sighed and ran and hand through his curls, fixing Grantaire with a stern glance. 

“Look,” he said tiredly, “if you’re here to tell me that getting Eleven’s story out isn’t going to work, then I don’t want to hear it.”

Grantaire blinked stupidly, although in retrospect, he probably should have seen it coming; he did have an unfortunate habit of picking holes in Enjolras’s ideas. 

“I  don’t  think it will work,” he said bluntly. Enjolras scowled deeply, moving to slam the door in his face, (which he would deserve), but Grantaire blocked it with his foot. “However that’s not the reason I’m here.” 

Enjolras froze, obviously deciding whether or not to let him in, before relenting and opening the door for him. 

“So?” Enjolras said, turning to face him. He looked annoyed, but other than his previous comment, he couldn’t think what he’d done to infuriate him this time. Although, Enjolras’s scowl was becoming something he was definitely used to seeing now. 

“I-uh, I have something I need to tell you.” He blurted out, twisting the hem of his shirt nervously and searching the other man’s face for any kind of sign.

Unfortunately, Enjolras’s face was completely blank, starting up at him expectantly. 

“Okay.” Enjolras said slowly, giving him time to get the words out right. 

“Well, obviously you know I’ve known who you are for years? Right? Yeah, well, I don’t know-I just...” why was it so hard to just spit out? “...I just really like you. In fact, I love you! Shit! There, I said it! I’m so in love with you and I have been pretty much my whole life.” 

His head was spinning, too many thoughts and emotions flying round at once, and he knew he was rambling but he just couldn’t stop himself. He felt almost sick with anticipation, his stomach flipping over more times than what should have been humanly possible. Was there a world record for that? If there was then surely he’d broken it by now. 

He watched Enjolras desperately, hoping he didn’t laugh in his face. Although at the moment, even that reaction would be better than the none existent one he was being given instead. So he saved himself the embarrassment. 

“Look, I’m..I’m not saying you have to  _ return  _ these feelings or anything. I mean, your barely even know me. But, well, I mean now you can at least...I don’t know. Well, Jehan’s not in a relationship either...”

He could feel his heart shattering with those last words. He tried to imagine seeing Enjolras and Jehan together, laughing and smiling without him. They didn’t need him. He was kidding himself trying to believe someone like Enjolras would ever like him, he knew that. But perhaps there had always been some part of him that had hoped, or tried to force himself to believe it. 

Enjolras blinked, frowning deeply. 

“Why would I need to know Jehan didn’t have a partner?” 

Grantaire just gaped at him stupidly. And he couldn’t help but feel annoyed that his first reaction wasn’t even about him confessing his undying love for him. It was about  _Jehan_.  Well, obviously. It’s not like he would have any reason to care what Grantaire said.

He shrugged helplessly, not wanting to have to say it out loud. That would only make it seem so much more real. And painful. 

“Who told you?” Enjolras said suddenly. When he looked up, Grantaire was surprised to see tears filling his blue eyes, turning them shiny. He was swallowing stubbornly, refusing to cry, but why? 

“What?”

“Who told you?” Enjolras repeated, hiccuping softly, shoulders beginning to shake and his bottom lip trembling. 

“Told you what?” He was so confused. Enjolras was making no sense and only adding to his ever growing feeling of helplessness.

“You’re making fun of me.” Enjolras said so quietly that Grantaire swore he could hear his own heart drop to hi stomach. 

“ What ?” 

“You-you’re making fun of me because someone told you  _ I  _ liked  _ you _ , aren’t you?” 

There was no fire in his eyes now, only a kind of pained sadness that Grantaire knew so well. In fact, it was this that brought him back to his senses; that familiar feeling he’d often found himself wallowing in.

He lurched forwards, pressing his lips hard to Enjolras’s, one hand twisting itself into his golden hair, the other coming to rest on his hip gently. For a second, Enjolras didn’t move and he thought about pulling away, his blood turning to ice as he wondered if he’d overstepped some kind of boundary.

But then Enjolras was kissing him back, both of his arms wrapping around his neck, moving closer until there was no distance between them. He could feel the heat rushing to his cheeks but he couldn’t bring himself to care. Enjolras-beautiful, terrifying Enjolras-liked him back. He tasted of something citrusy, maybe orange, and vanilla, and it was almost too much for him to handle. 

They broke apart, gasping for air, and Grantaire was surprised to see the huge grin that was plastered over Enjolras’s face. It felt so surreal that for a moment he forgot where they were; there were no Hunger Games, no revolutions or reapings. Only himself and Enjolras, shut away from the rest of the world and living off of each other’s happiness.

How he wished that could be true. The damage was done though now, and if Enjolras didn’t make it out of these Game’s alive he knew he would go no further. Not without him. Although he couldn’t say he regretted it. 

“You weren’t joking then?” Enjolras smiled, tilting his head to the side and looking like an adorable little puppy. It was hard to believe this was the same man who could tear down a city with his anger. “You like me for real?” 

Grantaire just grinned into his lips. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Later that night, when they were both sat on Enjolras’s bed, Grantaire sat against the wall whilst Enjolras laid with his head in his lap, the blonde looked up at him with an unreadable expression in his eyes.

“What about Jehan?” He asked suddenly, a few traces of doubt crossing his face breifly. It was only there for a second, but Grantaire saw it. There was something he wasn’t believing.

He frowned. “What about him?” 

“Well aren’t you two...you know..?” Enjolras trailed off, biting his lip uncertainly. 

_ Oh, he thinks we’re sleeping together _ _,_ Grantaire realised suddenly. And the thought was so absurd to him that he burst into a loud fit of laughter. And the whole time Enjolras was just staring at him with such a confused look in his eyes that he tried to turn into a scowl. He was also failing miserably.

“What?” He said stubbornly, whilst Grantaire wiped at his eyes, unable to keep it together. 

“Enj,” he snorted, “me and Jehan are just friends. I promise.”

That seemed to satisfy him enough, and he nodded and snuggled back down, closing his eyes almost instantaneously. 

Grantaire chuckled softly, feeling his own eyes growing heavy, not even fighting sleep when it finally pulled him under. 

He would have said he’d never been happier-which would have been true-but there was still that nagging fear that wouldn’t leave his mind even in his dreams. 

~~~~~~~~~~~

Enjolras was sure there was something going on at the breakfast table the next morning. He was seated next to Grantaire, their ankles resting against each other gently, which was different-yes-but there was definitely something else that everyone was keeping from them. 

All through the meal, little glances were being shot at them; a side glance from Valjean here and a smirk from Jehan there. And Vivienne was purposefully avoiding eye contact with them both. 

When it became too obvious, too annoying that he couldn’t ignore it anymore, he slammed down his knife and fork and glared at them all. Next to him, Grantaire jumped and spilt orange juice down his front, clearly not anticipating his next movement. 

He had to suppress the grin threatening show, and scowled at the rest of the table. 

“What?” He said irritably, folding his arms and leaning back in his chair. 

The table shared a quick glance at each other before all three of them burst into laughter. He and Grantaire shared an incredulous look breifly before Grantaire too started laughing. 

However his was more of an embarrassed laugh, and he hid his face in his arms, only resurfacing when his face was beetroot red. 

“Oh, shit,” he laughed, rubbing at his eyes and staring pointedly at Jehan. “ _ He’s _ told everyone.” 

Enjolras paused before putting it all together. 

Ah.

And then the whole thing was so embarrassingly funny that he too couldn’t help giggling and blushing the same colour of his shirt. 

“Someone came in the room this morning,” Grantaire laughed, “and I  _ thought  _ it was a Capitol attendant because they left the minute I stirred. But it wasn’t, was it  _Jehan_? ”

“Nope!” Jehan spluttered, clutching a hand to his rib cage and leaning on Valjean for support, who was trying to look unimpressed but was failing. 

“Well when our little lovebirds have got themselves ready, Enjolras I need you in the training center at ten,” Valjean said, glancing at his watch breifly, “Vivienne will meet you there. We’ve got training scores to do.”

And maybe it was because he was so frightened for the following days, or maybe it was because he’d spent almost every second of the previous weeks being dragged around the Capitol, but the days seemed to be slipping away like dust. Hours seemed like minutes and minutes like seconds, every moment a step closer to death.

Enjolras couldn’t remember the last time he’d been able to think of anything but what going into the arena meant. He didn’t fear death, not as anyone else would. He feared dying without making that chance, being just another piece in the Games. He feared having to kill for his own survival and not someone else’s. Because there was only going to be one winner if their plan didn’t work. 

And that winner probably couldn’t be himself. He would want Courfeyrac to win, but he wasn’t from his district. Which meant that the people of Twelve would gain nothing-no extra food when they kneeling over with starvation almost every day. However with Courf’s win, maybe the revolution could still happen. He wanted it bad enough, certainly.

But if Vivienne won, Twelve would benefit so much! Granted, Vivienne probably wasn’t interested in the revolution, but maybe if Jehan talked to her...he could do it with her. With her help.

He knew that he’d do the best he could to make sure he stayed alive until either only Courfeyrac or Vivienne were left...perhaps even both. And then he’d have no choice but to take his own life.

He didn’t want to win. He didn’t want to have to see his friends die. 

So their plan  _ had  _ to work! Jehan  had  to find some way to destroy the arena from the inside and let them know. Which shouldn’t be too hard, unless of course the parcels they receive are monitored-which would mean no clues or messages. 

But he trusted Jehan, he would find a way. Hopefully, anyway.

By now, only himself and Vivienne were left. The tributes One through Eleven had been already, and since the males tributes went first, he was up next. 

When he arrived, he could tell the Gamemakers had been anticipating his movements. They would be expecting some kind of rebellious act.

So of course, he wouldn’t give it to them. 

Well, he would have done, but he’d been specifically instructed not to by Valjean. And somehow he didn’t think pissing him off would help anyone’s chances in the arena. 

But it was so wrong! How such little skills that could be shown to them would determine their sponsors and pretty much the outcome of them in the arena. And the chances were, he was going to get a low score either way. The Gamemakers weren’t going to reward him with good efforts, they would make sure his life was even more hell.

So why stay?

Why bother? 

He didn’t need to, he realised. It would be his own, subtle act of defiance that would strike the Gamemakers as odd but altogether not affect how well he did. 

So instead of trying to impress them, he looked right up at them, making direct eye contact. Then he smiled, his eyes burning daggers into their skulls, warning them.

_ You can’t win.  _

And he turned on his heel and left the room, the door slamming impossibly loud behind him.

The noise followed him all the way down to his room, only stopping when he slammed his own door, tears of frustration building up. He knew he’d messed up what little change he had left, but it was only now, when he was finally alone, that the truth really hit him. 

Everything; his whole life, his friends,  _ Grantaire  _ was going to be ripped away from him. He was going to be left alone, dead somewhere in the arena.

And he was so angry, the hatred and disgust he felt for the Capitol and everyone in it making his blood boil. There was something wrong with these people, something about them must be damaged or broken, because no  _ person  _ deemed watching someone die  _ entertaining _ . No one! They were monsters. Manipulated, twisted monsters and not a single one could ever be forgiven.

Everything was too much, too overwhelming at once, so he buried his head in his pillow and sobbed until there were no tears left, his head throbbing against his temple, flitting somewhere between sleep and consciousness.

At some point, he supposed he must have finally fallen asleep, because Grantaire was sat beside him, stroking his cheek with his thumb, a fond smile upon his face. 

“Taire?” He mumbled, leaning into the touch. It was comforting, reassuring, to know that through it all there was someone he could rely on. Even if that person stood for nothing he believed him.

“Hey,” R smiled, those beautiful green eyes lighting up at the sight of him. Grantaire was looking at him as if he was his whole world. Grantaire was certainly his. 

“So what happened in there?”

When Enjolras told him, Grantaire didn’t even laugh. But he also wasn’t angry. So he knew too, there was nothing Enjolras could have done in there to try and change the Gamemakers minds. Perhaps everyone know. It was a relief in a way, to know that finally,  _ finally _ , he could stop worrying about scores and voting and everything that meant so much but at the same time meant nothing. 

“I mean really,” Grantaire said, chuckling to himself, “what’s the worst they can do? Give you a low score?”

Enjolras smiled, already feeling more reassured than if it weren’t for R, he wouldn’t do.

He hummed in agreement and Grantaire jumped up from the bed, offering out his hand. “So what do you say to watching the scores then?” 

He groaned, but he knew Grantaire could tell it was half-hearted, so he took his hand and let himself be pulled into the sitting room where the rest of his team were already seated.

He noticed Valjean giving him a particularly strange look, verging I’m impressed but with a slight irritation in his eyes that suggested otherwise. Jehan was perched on the edge of the sofa arm like a bird, plaiting Vivienne’s dark hair into a braid down her back. He glanced briefly up as they entered the room and flashed a smile, Vivienne welcoming them from over her shoulder.

“See I don’t know about you,” Valjean said, fixing him with a stern look, “but I would say walking out of the Training Room  _without showing them anything_ could be called a ‘rebellious act’. Which, by the way, I seem to remember _personally_ instructing you _not_ to do.” He sounded sincere, but there was a slight edge to his voice-perhaps dancing on the edge of amusement, that made him realise no matter what he did, he could never satisfy him. Oh well, he was never one for following rules anyway. 

From across the room, Jehan let out a huge, audible sigh. He tied the end of the braid he was plaiting with a bow and turned to face him, exasperation etched into every one of his dainty features. 

“Oh, Enjolras!” He whined, pinching the bridge of his nose. For someone so small, he could manage to look scarily unimpressed. “You didn’t, did you?” 

“If I said no would that please you?” 

Jehan shook his head and flopped down onto the sofa again, laying with his legs hanging over the armrest.

“I will never understand you.” He mumbled.

Vivienne giggled and shuffled over so that there was enough room for himself and Grantaire. “I did wonder why i got called in so quickly.” She said thoughtfully. 

Grantaire chuckled and pretended to swat his head,

“He just doesn’t listen, does he?” 

The scores for each tribute flashed on the screen; districts One through Four scores predictably high and ones such as Six and Nine scoring lower.

Courfeyrac did well, which was a relief. The scores were given on a scale of zero to twelve and he managed an eleven, which was remarkably high. 

By the time Vivienne’s score flashed on the board, he was definitely feeling the nerves beginning to kick in; he was next. 

Vivienne scraped up a nine, which he found impressive. For someone so small, she must have impressed the Gamemakers thoroughly to manage it. I 

Enjolras high-fived her, reassuring her that she’d done remarkably well, whilst the rest of the team sung her praise.

And then a picture of his face was flashing on the screen, the number underneath boring into his eyes. 

He didn’t score zero. 

In fact, he didn’t score low at all. 

_Twelve_. 

Twelve? A feeling of dread began to settle in his stomach, nausea creeping up his throat. He swallowed hard and looked down at his feet.

“Why’ve they done that?” Grantaire whispered, something deeper than pain lacing his every syllable. When he turned to look at him, Enjolras could see that he was trying to stay strong. 

It was no coincidence. No mix up. He’d scored a twelve, dangerously high for someone who hadn’t even showed any skill. And somehow he felt that he definitely hadn’t impressed them with his wit or anger.

So why?

Valjean reached the conclusion seconds before he did, his face draining of colour. 

“So that he’s an immediate target the second you get into the arena.”

No one bothered to congratulate him, no one bothered to pretend anything anymore. Twenty-one tributes that would immediately begin to hunt him down. How could he keep anyone else alive if he wouldn’t even be able to keep himself safe?

Enjolras stayed long after anyone else had left. Grantaire had tried to stay up with him but it was late. Plus, he had costumes to perfect for tomorrow’s interviews. 

The interviews...

Maybe his chances  _ were _ already blown, but maybe the chances the districts starting to rebel weren’t. If he could find some way to show them the Capitol was lying about so many things, they would have to.

The interviews were mandatory, they had to be broadcasted. And broadcasted live, too. 

So whatever he said in the two minute slot provided for him, would be out there for the whole world to see...

Suddenly, he knew exactly what needed to happen. 

~~~~~~~

Grantaire had just finished adding the last few adjustments to Enjolras’s costume when Enjolras himself walked in.

He looked worried, which was not something he’d seen often in the time he had known him. Not even back in Twelve all those years ago. 

“Are you alright?”

Enjolras inhaled deeply, squeezing his eyes shut for a second. When he opened them, Grantaire could see there was something deeply troubling him. 

“I’m not sure.” He said, sitting down opposite him and looking at him strangely.

Grantaire frowned and took one of Enjolras’s slender hands in his own. He was shaking, but saved Enjolras the embarrassment of mentioning it. 

“You can tell me anything, you know?” 

Enjolras nodded and swallowed, taking a deep breath. His face was creased with worry, eyebrows drawn close together, and he was biting at his lip uncertainly. 

“Grantaire, there’s something I need to do, but I don’t-I don’t  _ know  _ if your going to like it.” His words tumbled out quickly, slightly disjointed and strangled. Enjolras looked down at his hands, shaking even more now.

“Do what you need to do.” 

Enjolras looked up at him in surprise, his head tilted to the side like a puppy. “No, really,” Grantaire assured him, “I believe in you and you know what you’re doing.”

Enjolras flew around the table so quickly that for a moment all he could see what a blur of red and gold. And then his visions was obscured by a mass of blonde curls that smelt of strawberries and Enjolras’s arms wrapped around his neck.

And honestly, if this meant he was letting Enjolras do whatever the fuck he was wanting to-and it cost Grantaire his  _ life  _ if it needed to-he would let him. He would let Enjolras do anything, and maybe that was unhealthy but after being in love with this man for as long as he had been, why shouldn’t he? 

However, needless to say, exactly what it was Enjolras was planning, he never revealed. So the whole time he was getting him ready for the interview, the only thing bouncing around his mind was:  _ what is he going to do? _

He wasn’t worried for his own safety-Enjolras would never put him in a situation that he didn’t think he could handle-but he was definitely fearing for Enjolras’s. God knows what it was he was thinking. He doubted even Jehan knew, Vivienne unlikely and Valjean almost certainly not. 

So three hours later saw them both staring at Enjolras’s reflection with something only to be described as awe.

He was dressed in a red leather jacket, elaborate flame decorations twisting up his sleeves, the same pattern painted onto his neck and around his eyes, giving him the effect he had literal flames in his eyes. He sported a simple black unitard, quite like the one from the Opening Ceremony, except from the waist down, it faded into a red. He was an ember of a fire, no he  was  the fire, burning with passion and anger that danced in his eyes.

Again, his face was relatively clear of makeup, except the flames on his neck and eyes, but he wore red eyeliner that matched his jacket. He looked beautiful, as always, but at the same time terrifying. He was burning and smouldering, the same crown as last time burnt and blacked in his golden curls, but still tinged white hot. Like himself.

“Don’t lift your arms above your head,” Grantaire instructed, “not until you see the perfect chance.”

“Will I be on fire again?” Enjolras asked, smiling faintly.

“Of a kind, yes.”

Enjolras chuckled and rested his head on his shoulder, his eyes soft. There was no danger in them no, no raging fire. Just..love. 

“I think you’re ready to go.” 

He nodded and shook his curls, his mind clearly faraway, eyes unfocused. He was planning something.

“Will you stand in the wings tonight?” He asked suddenly, fixing him with a sharp look, “please?” 

Grantaire weighed his options; he could be seen, possibly, but if he arrived after everyone was on stage and then left early...he probably could. And he’d promised Enjolras he would do anything. 

“Does Valjean know?” 

No reply. Obviously. It’s not like Enjolras ever followed any instructions he was given.

“Fine. Sure, okay.” 

Enjolras grinned and kissed his cheek, grabbing his hand and pulling him to the door.

“I’ll see you in a minute, then?”

And then Grantaire was left stood numbly on the spot, blushing furiously and knowing he would do absolutely anything for this man. 

~~~~~~~~~~

Enjolras didn’t pay much attention to the most part of the Interviews, and he knew that he must look so distant on the screens of Panem but he couldn’t bring himself to care. 

He was sat starting at the same spot on the stage that he had been for the last hour or so, one foot tapping nervously on the floor and his palms sweating furiously. 

He could practically hear his heartbeat in his chest, so loud it was becoming almost impossible that the people sat near him wouldn’t hear it.

Truth be told, he probably should be trying to listen. It could give him tips to what his opponents were like. As it was, all he knew was that the girl from One had been waiting for a spot in the games her whole life, the boy from Three was trying not to cry and the two from Five were siblings that were willing to kill each other, should it come to it.

Vivienne was before him, and she was as charming as ever. Dressed in a dark red dress that was inlaid with black jewels, sweeping the floor as she walked, the edges of the dress aflame, she was definitely the most beautiful girl on the stage at this point. He found it hard to believe anyone could dislike her, let alone find it in them to kill her. 

And then it was his turn. 

His head was still spinning as he took a seat next to Felix Tholomyes, the presenter. He smelt disgustingly strong of some expensive perfume that itched his nose and made his eyes water. He was dressed in bright yellow this year, his slicked back hair and even contacts matching the same colour. It was not flattering in the slightest.

“So, Enjolras,” Felix said, surgically altered face grinning up at him grotesquely, “I think it’s safe to say you’re the heartthrob of Panem at the moment!” 

Was he? He couldn’t say he cared in the slightest.

But he laughed and smiled, pretending to blush, knowing every single thing he did counted towards what he was planning. He had to play it nice, make sure he didn’t mess it up. 

“I can’t say I agree, Felix!” He smiled, shaking his head.

Felix laughed and looked out to audience for reassurance, greeted with a huge round of applause. He thought this was odd but didn’t think much of it. Surely the audience were just being kind. 

“Well, it looks like the audience collectively disagrees,” Felix grinned. “But with that outfit, who can say no?”

Enjolras smiled, seeing his chance rising up. 

“Oh, you like it?” He asked sweetly, too innocently, surely by now Valjean was Jehan must have caught on.

“It’s admirable,” Felix replied enviously, “but no fire this time?”

“Oh, no, Felix,” Enjolras grinned, heart beginning to race again but this time with adrenaline and excitement.

He stood up, raising his arms above his head. Immediately, he knew something was happening, and although he could feel nothing, he could hear the audience gasping. He looked up, catching a glimpse of himself on the screens. 

And, wow. Grantaire had topped it off all over again. His whole jacket had caught fire, raising up in terrifying flames around him, casting unearthly shadows on his face. He  was  the fire, defiant and rebellious. Dangerous.

“Oh my,” Felix laughed. “Wow, your stylist-Jehan, is it? He’s really outdone himself this time!” 

“It’s red and black, see?” He stated, knowing that back home, Twelve would immediately realise the true significance of his outfit. 

“And why’s that?”

“It’s an old song that used to be sung down the mines-hence the fire-but the lyrics are up to interpretation, I suppose.“ he replied. 

“Could we hear it?”

Ah. Well, he hadn’t anticipated that. Although he probably should have seen it coming, in retrospect.

“I guess so,” he smiled. So he sang it, a melodic song that spoke so strongly of rebellion that you had to be blind to miss. 

_ Red, the blood of angry men  _

_ Black, the dark of age has passed  _

_ Red, a world about to dawn  _

_ Black, the night that end at last  _

He saw Felix’s eyes harden, saw the panicked realisation bubbling in them. He’d fallen into the trap.

So instead, he tried to change the conversation, looping back to their previous conversation. 

“So,” he said quickly, “a strapping young man like you? You must have a lover back home?”

He’d done it again. Walked back into his trap, only this time, he had no idea what he’s gotten himself into. This was it. The moment he’d been planning. 

“Well, not at home...” he said slowly. 

“Oh!” Felix said, surprise echoing in his voice. He glanced briefly at Vivienne, trying to piece it together. 

“No, not Vivienne.” Enjolras said deliberately, making sure everyone was following his every word.

“You remember the winner of the Games a few years back? Grantaire?” 

He saw the immediate fear flash in the other man’s eyes.  _He knows_.  He knows Grantaire isn’t dead. 

“The boy who killed himself?” Felix laughed.  Laughed. He really thought it was funny? He’d just messed up so much for himself, he thought bitterly. “You can’t mean-“

“No, of course not!” Enjolras said coldly, watching as Felix relaxed, the tension leaving his body almost immediately. “I couldn’t be with a man who’s dead!”

He paused, feeling every person in the room holding their breaths.

“Unless...he wasn’t dead.” 

It was like a bomb dropped. But they couldn’t cut him off, not yet. There was still too much time left.

“But surely the Capitol wouldn’t lie about such a thing, would they? That’s not allowed. That could cause _uprisings_ , couldn’t it? Keeping someone hostage?” 

He was shouting now, anger pulsating through every word. 

The Capitol was going to be ridiculed now, hated by maybe even its own population. And surely the districts would be forced to rebel. And if not, with his next move. 

He glanced into the wings at Grantaire, catching his eye and silently pleading with him.  _Please_ ,  he tried to say,  _ please help me. _

~~~~~~

Grantaire had never been so afraid in his life. Did he follow Enjolras and run out onto that stage, or did he pretend he had no idea what he was saying. 

If he did the latter, Enjolras would be angry. So angry. Or he could silently explain, show him his fear. But he didn’t want to disappoint him, not that he feared Enjolras would ever do anything to him. Definitely not, he was too kind for that. But he’d be upset at the least. 

But Grantaire was a selfish person, he knew that. He didn’t mean to be, not intentionally, but he never did things that could help others if he was too scared to. He laughed at people, and focused mainly on his own problems. He wasn’t like Enjolras-he couldn’t be! But he could try, right? Could he do it for Enjolras, the love of his life, if not for himself? 

So he did what never did. 

He ran out into the stage. 

For a second, nobody moved. And then the audience erupted, screaming and shouting at the Capitol, at the Gamemakers and at Felix. They were saying it was barbaric, horrible, and he was so, so scared. 

The lights were too bright and the thousands of eyes too intense. But he could feel Enjolras’s presence near him. So he hurled himself straight into the other man’s arms, pressing his face into his neck, trembling with fear. 

Enjolras lifted his chin with his finger, gazing at him with so much passion in those striking eyes of his, and suddenly his fear melted away. He pressed his lips to Enjolras’s, feeling the stampede of the crowds torment of abuse towards the Capitol, before the lights blacked out and Enjolras pulled him offstage. 

It was only them that the realisation hit him; what had really happened. 

And oh god, they were both in so much danger. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a long chapter so sorry that I took so long to upload it.  
> Also, HAPPY BARRICADE DAY :(  
> But again  
> Thanks for reading :)


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “We need him. We’re getting out of here tonight.”

Jehan was in shock. And he wasn’t sure if he was supposed to be happy about their currant situation or not. 

Enjolras was in so much trouble, there was absolutely no way he was getting out of that arena alive. And now he was worrying about R, too, because if Enjolras died, god knows what he’d end up doing to himself. 

The thought of having to mourn either of his two tributes made his heart clench, and them potentially add Grantaire on top...

This wasn’t good. 

But he’d left the audience the second Enjolras had mentioned Grantaire, knowing exactly where that was going, and had got in touch with an old friend from the districts. 

They’d arranged for Grantaire to be flown in as soon as possible, because otherwise there was no way R was making it through the night without being executed by the Capitol. 

He wasn’t stupid. He was in charge of keeping the Capitol’s supply of hovercrafts safe, and he knew that should they find one missing, they would he was behind it. But like he said, he wasn't stupid. So he'd cut a replica of the key, giving the real one into reception, so that he couldn't be held accountable. For now, anyway.

The uprisings had begun, Eleven leading it all, so that was where Grantaire had to go. He trusted the person he’d arranged with, knew him well enough to know he was loyal. 

He was struck with a sudden thought;  _what if they all went to Eleven?_

It...it could work, couldn’t it? If himself, R, Enjolras, Vivienne and Valjean all escaped tonight. And Courfeyrac, of course! There was something about that curly haired ball of energy that made him immediately trust him. Which was probably a good thing, he supposed. 

And anyway, he’d already released Grantaire’s Victor’s tape, made sure the world knew they weren’t lying. So it wasn’t as if Eleven wouldn’t want them there. And I’m fact, with Enjolras as the leader of the revolution, (and he really had no choice-it was kind of already obvious he had to be), surely they’d be happy to see him. 

Obviously, the second it became apparent that they were missing, the whole country would be looking for them, which could prove to be a problem...

But there was no way those three were going into that death trap tomorrow morning. 

The rest of his team were waiting in Grantaire’s room, Valjean pacing the length of it hurriedly, the other three huddled tightly together on the sofa. 

“Where’s Courfeyrac?” He said the moment he shut the door, locking it securely behind him. 

“I don’t know. Probably in his compartment, why?” Vivienne said. She was trembling, and Jehan didn’t blame her. She never asked for any of this, never caused any sort of trouble. Not that anyone here ever deserved it, but at least they’d never been quiet, they’d always been prepared for the day in some sense, Enjolras especially. 

“We need him. We’re getting out of here tonight.” 

He explained his plan, told them everything from the Gamemaker’s slip-up to the guy in Eleven, their next destination. 

Enjolras seemed particularly distressed, although he was probably the one in most danger. He couldn’t work out why. 

“What about the other kids?” He asked, slowly. There was something in his voice-pain-that tore at his heart, because he could tell Enjolras knew. He knew they couldn’t save everyone. He was so absurdly selfless that for a moment, Jehan wanted nothing more than to wrap his arms around this blonde man, who cared so much about everyone else. 

“Enjolras..”

Enjolras nodded, taking a deep, shuddering breath and carrying on. 

“I know.” He said quietly, “I’ll to find Courf.” 

“What? And be, like, abducted by some Capitol attendant on the way there?” Vivienne said suddenly, seeming to snap out of her fearful state. “And R, you can’t go either. Jehan-you need to stay here and make sure no one else comes. And Valjean...well, he’s probably terrified of you so...”

Valjean chuckled, raising an eyebrow at her, before looking to Jehan for confirmation. 

“She can go if she wants.” He shrugged. Secretly, he was glad, because she was in less danger than anyone else at the moment. Why not? 

Vivienne smiles grimly and stood up, side glancing Enjolras before she left, something strange in her eyes. Admiration? No, it was more than that, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. Either way, Enjolras was as oblivious as always and didn’t notice a thing. Probably for the best, he thought vaguely. 

~~~~~~~~~~~

The Training Center was no different to usual, no one else there that shouldn’t be, but Vivienne still felt strangely uncomfortable as she hurried over to Courfeyrac’s compartment. 

Perhaps it was anticipation of the events the night would bring, maybe that he would refuse to come? She didn’t know. But whatever it was, it was making her heart threaten to pound out of her chest. 

Every squeak of the floorboard was someone coming to arrest them, every shadow casted by the flickering of a candle someone following her. She was glad when she reached the door she knew to be Courf’s, silently praying that he was alone. It would only be more difficult to explain if he had company. 

She knocked twice, the sound echoing in the nearly empty corridors, and she hoped to god that no one came out to see what the racket was. After a moment, Courfeyrac popped his head around the door, his eyes still droopy with sleep. He rubbed at them and gave her a sleepy smile, eyes not quite focusing on her. 

“Vivienne?”

“Is anyone with you?” 

It was easier to cut straight to the point, she figured, and it saved much more time. Courfeyrac frowned and tilted his head to the side. 

“No.” He said. Thank god for small mercies, she thought. “Why?”

“We’re getting out of here tonight.”

“Wait, shit. Hold up.” He spluttered, glancing round to check the coast was clear. “Why?”

“Did you pay any attention to the interviews?” It was quite obvious, she thought. He was intelligent, surely he could have figured that out himself? 

She raised an eyebrow and Courfeyrac gave a slight indication of his head, as if to agree, and grinned. 

“Okay, fair enough.” 

She set off back down the corridor, quickening her pace, when she felt Courf grab her arm. 

“What about-“ Ah. Yes. His district mentors and tribute. “-we cant just leave them!”

“I’m sorry, Courf,” she said gently, wishing that there was some way she could help save them. But it was too risky, they wouldn’t make it. “We can’t take everyone, and if they knew you were leaving, they’d only be tortured by the Capitol.”

Courfeyrac nodded grimly and swallowed, squeezing his eyes shut for a brief moment, and then seeming to snap back to his senses. 

“Yeah. Okay, yeah I get it.”

They walked back to the room as quickly as possible, whilst being as silent as they could, and Vivienne noticed that Courfeyrac was an incredibly loud person. Literally everything he did was so _loud;_ he was heavy footed, breathed out deeply through his nose and hummed under his breath as he walked. She side glanced him quickly, but he seemed unfazed, and she wondered if he even realised. 

He was incredibly attractive, she also concluded, and he gave even Enjolras a run for his money, which was definitely an achievement. There were little dimples on his cheeks, accompanied by the slight way the corners of his mouth seemed permanently upturned in a smirk, that gave off the impression he was always up to something. But it was like it was his own secret, something he didn’t share with anyone else-an inside joke-and it strange entrancing. 

Before she knew it, they had reached Grantaire’s room again, and she pushed open the door, letting Courf through first. He grinned and bounded through, immediately engulfing Enjolras in a hug, who jumped in surprise but didn’t really seem to mind.

“Oh, Viv, thanks.” Jehan smiled, patting her on the shoulder gently. Enjolras looked up, catching her eye momentarily and giving her a brief, warm smile that made her insides melt. 

A small part of her wanted to hold on to that feeling, memorise his face and all its beauty, but she knew she could never stand a chance. She was only two years younger than him, but she knew he would never be her’s. Maybe in another lifetime, she would say, but even she wasn’t blind enough to see that him and Grantaire were blatantly soulmates. They worked together and functioned together, polar opposites, yes, but something about them sparked a reaction in the other. They were in synch, eyes full of the love and veneration that she would never find in those blue ones of his. 

She couldn’t even find it in herself to be jealous, no when anyone could see how in love they were. And anyway, whatever plan lay ahead of them was likely to be what greeted them with death, so if she got to spend her last moments with him, or at least in his presence, that would be enough. 

Her real concern was of her family. Her parents, her brother, they wouldn’t know what to expect when she didn’t show up for the Games. Could it lead to their executions? Surely not? If they had no idea, the Capitol would soon realise that and if they were killed, they would be held accountable by the districts. So they were probably safe. Plus, she knew Enjolras had a sister, so she doubted he’d ever put her in danger. He wasn’t that sort of person. 

So, for now she pushed that thought from her head, trying to focus solely on making it out of here alive. Because, with it leaning ever closer to midnight, surely they would have to leave soon. 

Just as that thought had formed in her mind, Valjean spoke up, his voice grave with something she couldn’t even begin to identify. Although, when could she ever figure out what was going on inside that man’s mind. She admired him, certainly. He was strong and brave, braver than she was, but she doubted she’d ever not feel intimidated by him. But hey, who could blame her? 

“It’s time.” He said, narrowing his eyes and looking to Jehan for confirmation. Jehan was fidgeting with his braid, twisting the ends around his thin fingers with their painted nails, but nonetheless, he nodded and raised his chin. 

“Okay then,” Valjean said quietly, “let’s go.” 

~~~~~~~~~~

Everything was so much deadlier at night. Every wisp of wind felt like someone’s breath on his shoulder, and Enjolras couldn’t shake the feeling they were being watched. 

Obviously, it would feel like that; they were literally escaping from the Capitol in the middle of the night, but it wasn’t just that. He could feel the eyes on the back of his head, feel his skin prickling, but he didn’t dare say anything. He’d only be called paranoid, or set them behind schedule. 

So he didn’t say anything. Perhaps he should have, but he couldn’t know. Not yet, anyway. 

“Where are we headed?” He heard Courfeyrac whisper, just catching hold of Jehan’s mumbled reply of, 

“The roof.” 

And he didn’t know what he’d been expecting, but a gigantic hovercraft parked on the roof of the training centre hadn’t been it. Although, now that he thought about it, it did kind of make more sense. However in his defence, it would have been absolutely normal for it to be slightly more hidden; it was quite literally on display for the world the see, so he could only hope that no one else decided to make a midnight trip to the roof because they’d be pretty much busted. 

Thankfully, Valjean had had the sense to take some of the clothes that had been available in the wardrobes, and Enjolras couldn’t be more grateful. The wind was icy cold and even through around three layers of clothing he could still feel it biting away at his skin. He shivered and rubbed his hands together in a feeble attempt to warm himself back up. Needless to say, it didn’t work. 

And it was strange; he’d spent his entire life waiting for a chance to take down the Capitol, but now that it was here...all he could think about were the lives that could be lost in the fight. Obviously he’d never been naive enough to believe that they could return from revolution with everyone alive, but he’d never imagined fighting with people he’d grown to love. And particularly with one. 

He was glad, of course, that the time was here. He’d worked and waited and given up  _ everything  _ for this but...

But he didn’t fear his own death. If it meant freedom, he welcomed it with open arms. He wouldn’t fear it. However he couldn’t shake the feeling that maybe be was leading them to death, maybe. But they knew that! They all knew what they were walking into, and if they didn’t, they would have left by now. 

“Enjolras?” Vivienne said, her tone interlaced with a certain excitement, and he felt the butterflies rising in his stomach. This was it! They were finally,  _ finally  _ getting their chance. And god knows he wasn’t throwing away this shot. 

He made his way over to the hovercraft, anticipation bubbling in his chest, but then something caught his eye. 

It wasn’t much; only a slight shift of light-like the glint of a knife, and before he knew what was happening, there was one pressed against his throat. 

A low, guttural sound escaped his chest, and his heart threatened to burst out of his rib cage. He glanced around, seeing a few of the others trapped in the guards’ headlock, whilst a hand tightened around his throat. He scraped at the man’s arm, feebly attempting to loosen his grip, but the knife was beginning to draw blood, his airways closing up, and if he didn’t do something soon he was going to run out of time. 

He could hear the man’s heavy breathing down his neck, his gravelly voice whispering in his ear, “Move and you die.” 

So he either twisted and risked having his throat slit open, or waited to be dragged into the deep chambers of the Capitol, tortured and forced into the games. 

Either option would inevitably lead to his death, either option could keep him from reaching this goal. 

A split second decision. 

He mumbled something incoherent to the guard, jumbled and breathy but loud enough so that he was heard. He watched as the man’s face scrunched up, blonde eyebrows drawing close together in confusion. 

“What?” He said gruffly, giving him a violent shake, the knife pressing further into his neck. A few meters away, someone let out a high shriek. 

He mumbled again, the man sighing in frustration and leaning closer. In that slight second, his grip loosened, slacked, and Enjolras spun around, getting a firm grip on the metal to his throat. He twisted around, willing himself to not think about it too much. If he did, he wouldn’t go through with it. 

But then someone cried out again, and in a moment of pure, blind panic, he thrust the knife into his stomach, feeling his warm blood soak his hands. 

The man’s cries echoed around his brain but he couldn’t think about that. Not now. 

It was as if his action caused a chain reaction, cries and screams mingling in the air, too distorted to be able to identify which belonged to who. 

Enjolras surged forwards, knocking the guard pinning Jehan to the ground aside. He pulled him up, heard him whisper something about starting the hovercraft, and then he was gone. He could already smell the blood in the air, and he could only pray to whatever god there was that it wasn’t any of his friends’. 

“Enjolras!” 

A hand grabbed his wrist, one he knew so well to be Grantaire’s, calloused and strong, dragging him into the hovercraft. 

It was strangely warm, a good shelter from the night’s icy winds, and he collapsed to the side, gasping for breath he hadn’t realised he’d been deprived of. 

“Where’s-where’s Viv?” He choked out, looking around wildly. Was he okay? Was she hurt? Oh god, if she’d been killed...

“She’s there, Enjolras. She’s coming now.” Jehan reassured him. 

He glanced up, his heart sinking as he took one look at her face. 

It was pinched and drawn, creased with pain, and she was panting. He followed his gaze down, letting out a gasp as he saw the blood that stained her stomach. 

~~~~~~~~~~

It was all going so well. 

So what if they’d been temporarily held up? No one was hurt...well, no one she knew...and they seemed to be getting away okay. 

She could see Jehan running into the hovercraft, see him frantically scrambling inside and starting it up. Enjolras was being lead inside by Grantaire, who was sporting no more than a slit above his eyebrow. Courfeyrac was already inside too, hurriedly helping start the engine and Valjean was close on his heels. 

She herself only had a few scratches to her cheeks, and a slight feeling that her ribs may be bruised, and was relatively okay. 

That was until the knife entered her stomach. 

It was pain more unbearable than she’d ever felt, tearing away at her insides and sending a wave of fear through her body. She couldn’t see the wound it had left, but she could tell from the amount of blood seeping out that it was deep. Perhaps fatal, if she didn’t get inside that bloody hovercraft soon. 

She stumbled up the stairs, each step sending a sharp stab of pain through he side. She could feel the tears spilling from her eyes, mixing with the blood and sweat until she could barely see. Barely think, or speak, or do anything. 

Enjolras looked up, fear immediately creasing his face, the colour completely draining from it, going (if possible) even paler. But she was barely even taking notice of anything. 

Not when Jehan lifted the hovercraft into acceleration, not when Enjolras guided her to a seat, not when Valjean rum aged around for the first aid kit. She knew she was running out of time, but maybe if they were quick they could do something? She knew she was holding onto false hope, but she didn’t want to face the fact that unless either of the others were any skilled in this area, she was going to die. 

Just the thought of not being able to say goodbye to her family forced her to keep pushing through. She couldn’t leave her brother alone-especially now with the districts starting to riot. For the first time, the realisation that she may never see them again sunk in. But she’d known that the minute she’d been picked out of the Reaping Ball all those weeks ago. 

How long had it really been? Two weeks, she thought with a jolt. Two weeks but seemingly a lifetime ago. This person she was now, right here, was not who she’d stepped onto the train as those weeks ago. Back then, she’d have never imagined a world in which they were free. Well, other than in her dreams. And even then, she had never really thought she could make a change. Granted, she’d heard Enjolras shouting in the square, rioting in the Seam, and it wasn’t that she’d never taken any interest-because his way with words was impeccable. They transformed people and made them want to rise up. She’d seen that, she’d heard people saying they wanted to 

She just never really thought she’d have been picked. Being lucky enough to have never signed up for tesserae-never had to enter her name more than once a year in exchange for food. And obviously, somewhere in the back of her mind she had known there was always that chance. Everyone faced that chance. But it wasn’t until she actually heard her name spoken out, that she was forced to face the actual reality of it all.

And even now, if she were asked why she was really here, she wouldn’t be able to say. It wasn’t just because it meant escaping the games-that would be selfish-but she did know that revolution wasn’t her style. She’d never taken any real interest, but at the moment, she couldn’t picture herself anywhere else. 

And maybe that was because all she could see was Enjolras; his glowing hair, those vivid eyes so riddled with concern, his sharp, angelic features that were surely sculpted by artists. He was so unlike anyone else she’d ever seen, a beauty so different. And he was so selfless, so focused on making a change that anyone could see he had no fear when it came to dying. And as selfish as the thought was, she knew he’d take her place in a heartbeat if it stopped her from dying. 

And really, that was what was most painful. He couldn’t be protected, he couldn’t be stopped. He was like a huge ball of fire, tearing down cities and engulfing them in his flame. He was a leader, not a follower, and he may have to pay the price, but that would not stop him. 

So, she wasn’t going to die, she decided. Maybe if she willed it enough, found her strength, she could push through this. After all, they would he arriving in Eleven the following morning and maybe they would have something to help her with. Maybe. 

Sleep was trying to pull her under, and it seemed like a good release from the pain, so she closed her eyes, only to be shaken awake by Grantaire, who had a look of urgency in his eyes that she’d never seen before. 

It was that look that made her fear the worst; could she really die? Yes. Yes, and it was too likely. Grantaire was panicked, and he was probably the most laid back person she knew, (in the nicest way possible), and she felt her chest constricting with fear. 

“Hey, no, don’t fall asleep on us,” Grantaire said softly, his voice silky smooth. She’d never heard him speak like that before, too used to his loud, joking tone. She didn’t know whether that should reassure her or worry her. Probably the latter. 

“This might hurt a little,” Grantaire said grimly, producing a bandage from seemingly thin air. He lifted the hem of her shirt up, hands so controlled and steady she suddenly could see why he would be an artist. She’d see a few of his paintings-Valjean had shown her once, and she was sure he knew, but he’d never mentioned it. She should have told him how amazing they were when she’d had the chance. 

She gritted her teeth but couldn’t help the stream of tears that escaped her eyes, even squeezed shut, as he pressed the bandage to her waist, wrapping it tightly and sealing it with a fancy knot that looked way to complicated to try and replicate. And then someone else’s arms were around her shoulders, pulling her close and smoothening out the creases in her forehead. 

She could tell immediately it was Enjolras. And any other time, she’d have freaked out, but now it was all she could do not to cry out in agony. 

“You’re gonna be okay,” he said soothingly, taking her hand in his. “I promise, we’ll be in Eleven by morning, and they’ll know what to do. They’ll have been prepared.” 

She knew he was lying, but there was that small part of her that couldn’t help but believe him. Trust him. So she nodded and took a few heavy breaths to calm herself down. 

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. 

She’d slowed them down, would continue to do so for a good while now. They should have left her in the Capitol, not told her anything. And she’d have been fine. She might have even been able to win, but then where would she have been? Sitting in that throne with a crown on her head, innocent blood on her hands...

“No! Don’t be sorry! This...it’s my fault. Oh god, it’s my fault. Viv, I should have-I should have-“

“It’s nobody’s fault,” Valjean interjected. 

There were no tears in his eyes, and she knew it wasn’t because he didn’t care. It was more like he was being strong for her; if everyone was loosing it, it would only confirm the worst, and she was thankful for it. She nodded and closed her eyes, the pain starting to dull slightly. 

It wasn’t as if they were in the worst situation possible. She was warm and safe, tightly held in Enjolras’s arms, laying against him. She would make it. She had to. 

It was starting to grow light again when she woke up next. She could feel Enjolras’s chest rise and fall rhythmically, and knew he was fast asleep. She could barely feel the wound now, the pain lessening, and she took this for a good sign. It was warmer now, as well, and even though her breathing was hitching and out of sync, this was probably just because she had been in the same position for too long. 

She felt like she was floating, in her own world, and for once, she didn’t fear death. There was no reason to, she wasn’t hurting anymore. 

So when she felt sleep’s jaws pulling her back under again, she welcomed it. There was no fear in her heart this time...

~~~~~~~

When Enjolras awoke, it took a moment for him to remember what had happened. He knew his neck hurt, and when he reached up to touch it gently, he could feel dried blood. Ah, yes. Well at least it had stopped bleeding. 

And then he registered the weight of another person-Vivienne-and his stomach lurched with the memory of the previous night. She was sound asleep, which was probably a good sign, but she needed to have those bandages changed-surely they were soaked with blood by now. 

He leaned forwards to wake her gently, shaking her shoulder a little. But she didn’t stir. He frowned and tried again, this time with worry and fear settling into his heart. 

He swallowed and turned her face to his. She was icy cold to the touch, her dark skin free of the creases that pain had put there. She looked almost peaceful, eyes closed, thick eyelashes brushing her face gently. 

“No.” He muttered, feeling a lump rise in his throat, his heart clenching painfully. “No, no, no, no,  _no_!” 

He vaguely heard the others stirring at his voice, saw them through his peripheral vision moving towards them. But all he could think about was Vivienne. 

“No, wake up! Viv! Please wake up!” His voice cracked and broke, sobs freely flowing, joined by the sound of Jehan’s small, gasping breaths, Grantaire’s silent tears and Courfeyrac’s shuddering breaths. He looked up, breaking down completely, kicking out at the nearest available object: a wall. 

It did nothing. Only hurt his foot more, but hecouldn’t believed he’d let this happen. How could he have let her die? Was she alone when it happened? She must have been so frightened! But them again, she was so brave...maybe she hadn’t feared it. Hadn’t even known it was coming. 

But all he could think about was her family. Her family, who didn’t even know she’d left last night. Her family, who wouldn’t know what happened when she didn’t show up for the Games in a few hours. Her brother, who would now have to live without a sister. He shouldn’t have asked her to come! What if she’d made it out of the Games alive? She could have won! Could have  _lived_!  It was his fault, all of it. Her death, the others’ loss, her family’s life being wrenched apart. It was his fault. 

He sunk into Grantaire’s chest, grasping at his shirt and burying his face in her neck. But even his familiar scent could do nothing to calm him. Because he’d known what he had walked them into, had known death could be a price to pay. But he’d never imagined it to be this painful, this vivid. 

He collapsed, Grantaire’s strong arms holding him tightly, Courfeyrac sobbing above them, and he wished more than anything that it was him who had been killed instead. 

“It’s not your fault, Enj.” Grantaire said, running his fingers through his hair. He pulled away from the touch, he didn’t deserve comfort. 

“No, it is. It’s all my fault.” He couldn’t help his voice jumping a few octaves, and he cringed in spite of himself. 

“I think,” Valjean said suddenly, appearing in the doorway. His eyes were red rimmed with unshed tears, ones he could tell where barely being held back, “if anyone’s to blame, it’s the Capitol.” 

“It’s so fucking messed up.” Courfeyrac growled, his voice low and strung with pain. He barely even knew her, Enjolras realised, and now he would never get to. 

“That’s why we’re doing this.” Enjolras said. His head hurt from crying, he was dizzy and exhausted. But if he came across one of those people who murdered Vivienne right now, he would not hesitate to kill them. 

_Murdered_.  She was  _ murdered _ ! It sparked some other anger in him that he hadn’t even known existed and he could feel his face growing hotter. 

“I hate to be the one to point out the flaws in this plan,” Grantaire said mildly, and  _ of course  _ he would point those out, “but what exactly are we planning on doing when we get to Eleven?”

“The guy we’re meeting in Eleven has a plan. It means returning to the Capitol but there’s going to be more of us?” Jehan said calmly, his face still blotched with tears. 

“And then what? We find President Javert, yes, but then what?” 

“Then we fucking kill him.” Enjolras surprised even himself with his own harshness. But thinking about it, what else were they supposed to do? Give him some pep talk? A one on one? He didn’t think so. And after seeing the true horrors he’d let go by, and the ones he’d added in himself, he wasn’t getting out of this alive. 

Not a fucking chance. 

Jehan turned around in his seat, a strange look of pained excitement on his face. It was obvious the guilt he was feeling, but there was definitely something about his dreams finally falling into place that Enjolras could tell was increasing his adrenaline. And with a start, he realised he was too. 

“I think we’re here.”

~~~~~~~

It was still too early in the morning for anyone else in Eleven to be awake, too early for them to start work, so the people arriving should be able to get in workout being seen. 

Not that it was dangerous for them to be; the Peacekeepers of Eleven were dead. They had been since the tape of that boy,(Grantaire, was it?), had been released. And the whole of Eleven was already rebelling. 

Feuilly was exhausted; between working-although not as much recently-and organising Jehan and his friend’s escape, he’d barely slept. He was pretty sure only Jehan and Grantaire were arriving today, but there was still a part of him that hoped maybe Enjolras came too. They needed him, but if he hadn’t already escaped with them, he would be in the Games later on. 

Although, he did doubt they’d be able to manage to smuggle him in particular out of the Capitol. Anyway, what harm could it do to hope? 

The woods were alive with bird songs, their chirping reminding him of when everything had seemed so simple. Of course, it hadn’t been-not for eighty-two years-but he had been young and innocent, not knowing the true, harsh cruelty of the world he lived in. 

He worked eleven hours a day, the other hour spent trying to find some sort of food that he could buy with the tiny amount of money he earned. He had no family, he was an orphan, they were long dead; killed by Peacekeepers years ago, for a reason he’d never even been told. 

So in a way, this was his chance to prove his worth...to himself. He’d spent years trying to make himself believe that, only his history of suicide attempts didn’t really help with that. He’d grown up on the fucking streets, after all, and as if life wasn’t hard enough, the deep spiral of depression he’d fallen into had tipped him over the edge. 

He wasn’t better, not really, but he was getting there. He’d gone to the rallies the minute this years game was announced, the second Enjolras’s name was pulled out, and to be honest that was when they had really started. 

People had started to recognise him, listen to his ideas. And pretty soon he has ended up being Eleven’s leader. Obviously, he knew he couldn’t compete with Enjolras, should he try and start the revolution, but he didn’t want to. That guy was something special, and if the plan he had in mind worked, they could really win. 

He knew Jehan from the year Grantaire had won. He could barely remember anything about that year, when he was at the worst point in his life. He had been in the woods, seriously considering taking his own life again, but then he’d spotted him. 

He’d materialised out of seemingly nowhere, a gentle hand coming to rest on his shoulder. And Feuilly had immediately trusted this man. He was only a few years older then himself, so different from the Capitol occupants he had ever seen. No surgery, no blinding colours or excessive makeup. Simple, but breathtaking. 

Jehan had sat with him in those woods, told him he had come to simply find the right person to help him, and that he could tell Feuilly was that person. And then he’d given him a device, a small piece of metal that could pass as scrap material but could communicate with anyone who possessed one. 

And that was how he’d stayed connected with Jehan all these years. Jehan; the guy in the woods who saved him. Gave him purpose, and now he could finally repay him. 

As if on cue, the woods fell silent, signalling the arrival of the hovercraft. He whipped his head around, searching for any signs, and then he spotted it. From the clearing in the woods, in between the vibrant flowers that grew there, it appeared. 

He sprinted towards it, feeling the grin spread across his face, alive like he had never felt before. Every inch of him tingled with excitement, and he’d waited so long for this moment, pushed through so much that he didn’t want to, and now it was here. 

Before he knew what was happening, he was embraced in a tight hug, the scent of tulips filling his nose. When he pulled back, he was met with those familiar hazel eyes with their long lashes, the rosy cheeks splashed with freckles and auburn hair plaited and entwined with flowers. 

Jehan Prouvaire. 

A sudden movement a few meters forwards grabbed his attention, and he was met with another hug, this time from a boy who’s name he couldn’t place. He looked vaguely familiar; bouncy curls and chocolate eyes, short and dashing, with a voice that spoke

fast and tinted with happiness. He tilted his head in confusion, and the boy grinned up at him. 

“I’m Courfeyrac,” he said. And again the name rang some kind of bell, but he just couldn’t find where from. “District Four.” He added, and then it all fit. Ah, he was the male tribute from Four this year, the one with the shimmering scales on his face in the Opening Ceremony, scoring the second highest score. 

“Feuilly.” He replied, smiling back at him. 

The next person he met was Grantaire himself, and he only knew this from the previous night’s interview. He had a slight bounce to his step, and his shoulders were held back in a way that suggested he could be a dancer, should he ever find time to do so. He didn’t hug, but he did sling his arms around his shoulder, which were strong and muscular, and smirked at him. 

“Grantaire,” he offered, “but you can call me R, if you want.” 

He chucked at the pun and his face lit up hugely. He turned his head to yell over his shoulder at someone who wasn’t quite in his eyesight yet. 

“See, Enj? I’ve just met him and  he  thinks it’s funny!” 

And Feuilly did know what he’d been expecting, but it definitely wasn’t who came into view the next second. 

This man was even more stunning than he’d seen on screen, and he was also pretty terrifying, but that didn’t need to be mentioned. He had that fire in his eyes that suggested he could take the weight of the world on his shoulders, and bags under his eyes that confirmed he did just that. 

Enjolras held out a delicate hand, lips splitting into a smile. 

“Enjolras,” he said politely, “thank you for letting us come here.” 

“Oh, I know.” He laughed, scrambling to elaborate as Enjolras frowned, “I mean, I’ve seen you on like, tv and stuff...”

He scratched at the back of his neck and shook his head, trying to clear his mind. “Anyway, hi. It’s not a problem. I’m Feuilly, glad to meet you.”

Another man appeared from the hovercraft; tall and tanned, powder dusted hair and creases in his face that tiredness and suffering had put there. It was obvious that this man had once been handsome, and Feuilly could place him immediately: Jehan Valjean, a District Eleven Victor. 

Obviously, he knew the story of Eleven’s suicide mission, and also knew that Valjean wasn’t actually from Eleven, but still. You don’t meet Victor’s often, and Valjean didn’t really leave his home in the Victor’s Village. 

“Oh,” Feuilly said suddenly, quite intimidated by the man’s stern gaze, “Oh, I know you.” 

Valjean smiled tightly, holding out a hand, and he shook it quickly. He couldn’t help but notice that the boy from Four had no district partner, and neither did Enjolras. 

“Is this everyone?” He asked. The group shared a dark look, and immediately he knew something was wrong. And looking closer at them, he could see there was still fresh pain in their eyes, something that at first he’d mistaken for anger. But he knew that looks so well, that feeling of hopelessness. And maybe it wasn’t his place to ask, but he was still curious. 

And half an hour later, they were stood in the middle of the field of flowers, a headstone with a painted picture of Vivienne, the girl from Twelve, marking her resting place. 

When they’d told him about her death, he’d offered his small collection of art supplies that he kept in the woods. He didn’t know what to do with them, but Grantaire was quite the artist, it seemed, and he’d managed to conjure her up on the large, flat rock they’d found. 

She was beautiful, Feuilly thought, and it was such a shame that she’d had to be taken away so young. He didn’t know what was worse-that her family may never know the truth, or that she was buried in a district that wasn’t her own. Either way, both were equally horrible. And to think he could have known her, could have fought by her side...

She was a child! She was sixteen! He knew that be himself wasn’t much older-turning twenty this year-but she was so young. She wasn’t even an adult yet. And Enjolras, too,  _ eighteen  _ and leading a revolution! 

“So what’s the plan, then?” Enjolras asked suddenly, wiping away a tear that fell down his cheek. “How are we doing this?” 

So he told them. 

Since the moment Feuilly had been able to contact Jehan, they’d been discussing this revolution that they needed. It had been in planning for years. 

And when Enjolras’s name was drawn, most of the districts had seen this as a chance to rebel. The Capitol didn’t know the full extent of Enjolras’s rioting, and as a result, didn’t quite know just how many people knew about him. 

Of course, Districts One, Two and Three were too close to the Capitol to be able to successfully rebel, so they were out of the picture, not wanting to let anything slip accidentally. And Districts Nine and Ten were far too small with far too many peacekeepers. Their population was too small, and could be easily eliminated by the

Capitol-blown to pieces in a heartbeat. 

So that left Four, Five, Six, Seven, Eight, Eleven and Twelve as the leading districts. 

He knew that there was at least one person in each of these that would volunteer to join them, and if they made their stops quick, by nightfall could have a full team. 

The plan was to fly into the Capitol and cut off its transportation routes, that way ensuring it could take nothing and force nothing from the other districts. Which would also mean that the power lay in hands of the people. 

Whether President Javert was executed was up to Enjolras though, considering he’d worked so hard since being a child. Personally, Feuilly was hoping he was. He’d gone through so much more than anyone in the Capitol would have. And even Jehan-plotting against them the whole time-still grew up without the danger of the Games looming over him. Luckily, Feuilly never had been. But his best friend had, and he was killed possible in the most brutal way he’d ever seen anyone killed in the history of the Games. 

When he finished speaking, he glanced around to confirm with Jehan that he was correct. Jehan gave him a little smile and nodded his head, already making his way back to the hovercraft. 

“Wait! Where are you going?” He asked. 

He’d been flying that damn thing all night and a good chunk of the morning. “Surely you’re exhausted?”

“Well can you fly a hovercraft?” Jehan pouted, flicking his braid off of his shoulder. 

“How hard can it be?” 

Because really? It shouldn’t be too difficult and he’d probably be safer than Jehan flying; the poor guy looked on the verge of collapsing. Valjean stepped up beside him, patting Jehan’s delicate shoulder with his large hands. 

“Jehan Prouvaire.” He sighed, rolling his eyes so hard they might fall out of his head, “let the guy fly it. You’re going to fall asleep.”

“I’m not-“

“- _Jehan_!”  Feuilly laughed exasperatedly. He shook his head and placed both hands on his shoulders. “I can do this.” 

Jehan frowned and rubbed at his forehead, his eyes red rimmed from tears and tiredness. He looked shattered, and needed nothing more than a good sleep. He sighed and grimaced, looking Feuilly dead in the eyes. 

“Fine. But Enjolras goes with you.” 

“Oh yeah, like Enjolras would have any clue how to fly that!” Grantaire snorted, and he chuckled in spite of himself as Enjolras fixed him with a deadly glare. 

“I’m happy to go with you, Feuilly.” Enjolras said, nudging his boyfriend and throwing him a final smile. 

“Okay, then.” He said, turning on his heel and gesturing for Enjolras to follow him. “Let’s go.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IM SO SORRY!!!  
> I decided to change where this was heading last night and it took me HOURS to decide whether or not Viv would have to die...  
> I’m sorry :(   
> But thanks for reading...again :)


	11. Chapter 11

“So Enjolras,” 

They were halfway to Twelve, the sun already risen now, the skies streaked with gold and pink, and the air had that fresh scent of dew and early spring. It was mocking, almost, considering the reality of the situation. “Do you have any idea who we’re picking up from Twelve?” 

Enjolras nodded. Well, he had a good idea of who he’d pick anyway. “My friend. His name’s Combeferre.” 

“Oh, I think I’ve heard of him too.” Feuilly said thoughtfully, glancing at him through the wing mirror, “he’s part of your group, isn’t he?” 

Enjolras let out a small bubble of laughter, like a breathy chuckle. He was happy Ferre was getting some recognition, he deserved it more than anyone. 

“Was the kid you volunteered for your bother?” Feuilly asked, his voice taking on a gentler, more tentative tone. Enjolras appreciated it, and Gavroche was pretty much like his brother anyway. 

“No,” he replied, shifting his gaze to the window, though he could still feel Feuilly’s eyes on him. “He’s, um, he’s my friend’s brother.”

Feuilly frowned, making direct eye contact with him in the mirror, his red hair glowing in the morning sun. “Did they not volunteer for him?” His tone wasn’t accusing, but at the same time Enjolras felt like he was judging Gavroche, and although Feuilly obviously wouldn’t know the reason why, it still irritated him that he might not make some sort of connection. There wasn’t even a whisper of a family calling Gavroche’s name that morning. 

“She’s dead.” Enjolras said, not quite meaning for his tone to be so cold. “She was killed in the games the same year Grantaire won.”

“Oh! I’m so sorry! Shit, I shouldn’t have-“

“-it’s fine.” Feuilly looked so embarrassed, his pale cheeks flooding with colour, and he dropped his gaze back to the wheel. “She was his best friend though, and one of mine too.” 

Feuilly nodded, his lips set in a thin line as if he wasn’t trusting himself to speak. He could see the shame in his eyes, and despite his efforts, felt bad for him. He hadn’t known, after all. 

“I do have a sister though.” Enjolras said in an attempt to steer the conversation away. “Cosette.” 

“Are we taking her?” Feuilly asked. Enjolras frowned. Why would he put her in danger? Of course not. 

“You know it’s probably safer to,” Feuilly seemed to read his mind and raised an eyebrow as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. “She’ll be away from the Capitol, and we don’t even have to take her to the actual revolution, just away so they can’t touch her in the districts.” 

“Oh.”

Well it made sense when he said it like that. Feuilly chuckled and focused his gaze more intently on the skies ahead of them. He frowned and pointed at the top of a forest that was becoming closer by the second. “We’re gonna land in a minute,” he said, “we need to be as quick as possible.” 

Enjolras nodded and stood up, wringing his hands. 

He wasn’t nervous, per say, just unsure. Not of Combeferre, (he’d trust him with his life if it came to it-and it may well do) but perhaps of the other people he’d have to greet and pretend to like. No, not pretend. That made him sound like a dick, but he just wasn’t a people person. He never seemed to be able to find the right things to say, so it was even a miracle that he’d managed to get along with Feuilly so quickly. He just hoped the rest of them would be like that. 

He spotted Combeferre easily enough, hovering by one of the trees that lined the fence of Twelve. Something was wrong though. He could hear even from where he was stood that the fence was alive with electricity. Technically, it was supposed to be permanently charged, but that costed much more than Twelve even had to spend, so really it never was. So the fact that it was on today of all days made him feel uneasy.

Could it really be coincidence? Somehow he didn’t think so. He scanned the fields, searching for some sign of movement, but other than the figure that he knew to he Ferre, there was no one. He supposed they were probably gathering in the square now to watch the Games fall into place, and he wondered how many people in the districts knew there would be three tributes missing. 

He didn’t dare call out in fear that a peacekeeper may be lurking out of sight, but he reasoned that if they were they’d have seen the hovercraft by now and had their chance to attack. Still, that didn’t rule out the possibility that there weren’t any outside of the fence. And if that was the case, how would he be able to sneak back into the district to find Cosette? 

He was just debating if bringing her along was really the best choice when he heard a rustling a few hundred meters away. It came from where Combeferre stood, and he sighed in relief, the moment of fear passing, and drew back to his senses. It was only going to be so long before the Capitol sent hovercrafts out over Panem to scan the country for the three missing rebels, a stylist, mentor and a man the Capitol had told everyone was dead. 

As he darted over to where his best friend was stood, the sound of muffled voices reached his ears. He stopped, craning his neck to find the source. It hadn’t stopped, and maybe it had been there the whole time and he just hadn’t quite been in earshot, but for some reason the hairs on the back of his neck were stood on edge. 

Although...although it sounded like Cosette. But no. No, Combeferre wouldn’t have brought her along if he didn’t think it was safe for to be here. Unless it  was safe? Was it? He really didn’t know but he didn’t have much time to think before a thin pair of arms wrapped tightly around his neck. Soft, blonde hair that smelt of pine and strawberries brushed his cheek, the familiar weight of his sister resting against him. 

“Enjolras!” Her voice was uneven, raw, and he could tell she’d been crying. A tear of his own rolled down his cheek and he held her closer, her fragile shoulders shaking. 

And maybe it was just because he’d been so used to seeing the plump, surgically altered faces of the Capitol’s people, (with the exception of the three he’d escaped with); people that had never once in their lives seen or even dreamt of day where their meals weren’t handed to them on a silver platter. But looking at his little sister now, the hollowed out eyes and prominent cheekbones seemed even more alarming than usual. 

He turned to Combeferre, practically throwing himself onto him, revelling in the way his strong arms kept him safe, a feeling he’d had little time to experience these past few...weeks? Months? He didn’t even know how long he’d been away. Time meant nothing. And the smaller, selfish side of himself wanted to just stay here, forget the revolution, but...

But he couldn’t do that. Why would he do that? This was everything that he’d wanted for as long as he could remember. If they didn’t take the stand now, who would? 

He looked up at his bespectacled friend, his dark skin equally as hollowed out, starvation cutting into his face just like Cosette’s. Just like everyone in the districts whilst the Capitol used them like pieces in its twisted game. Eighty-two years of it! Eighty-two fucking years of it, and only now were people beginning to rise up! As a kid, Enjolras had known he was little more than nothing, had wished for a war. He knew it was the only way to honour the thousands of children being murdered every year. If he died, he died, but it was either going to be for the people or at the Capitol’s hands. 

“How did you escape?” Combeferre said breathlessly, gripping hold of Enjolras’s shoulders. 

“It’s a long story...” he sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. And then he clocked Combeferre’s grin and when he shifted his gaze to Cosette, she was wearing the same expression. 

“What?” He asked defensively, a hand going to his cheek to feel for what they were laughing at. 

“Is Grantaire here?” Cosette said sweetly, an innocent smile creeping up on her face. 

“Oh,” He blushed, smiling despite himself, “yeah, he is.” He tried to regather himself but Combeferre’s side smirk was quite off-putting, so he just pretended not to notice them sniggering. 

When they reached the hovercraft, they were greeted by Feuilly, who shooed them inside rather quickly, his gaze coming to rest on Cosette. He stared at her for a moment, then looked at Enjolras, and then back to her again. 

“Oh my god,” he laughed, eyes flitting between the two of them, “you’re practically identical! You look like twins.” 

Enjolras smiled and wrapped an arm around his sister, internally promising his self he would never let her out of his sight again. 

Combeferre was looking around the hovercraft as though he was expecting someone else to materialise out of thin air, his forehead furrowed deeply. 

“Uh, dude?” Feuilly said hesitantly, quirking an eyebrow up, “you alright there?” 

Combeferre straightened up again, shaking his head to clear it of whatever seemed to be troubling him. 

“Oh, yeah.” He paused, “Enj, you said Grantaire was here?” 

Enjolras frowned. 

“Not  _here_ ,  District Eleven.” 

“Eleven? Why?” He frowned and looked between Enjolras and Feuilly as if he couldn’t understand. 

“There wasn’t much point in bringing everyone,” Feuilly shrugged, “We’re picking up the people from the other districts and then going back to Eleven. It’s just easier.” 

“Oh. I see.” Ferre said, relaxing. He was always more at ease when he knew what was going on, that was something Enjolras had noticed even when he was still a kid. So he decided to fill him in on everything else too. 

“And uh, I just thought you should know,” he began, tip-toeing around his words carefully, scared off what his own words might do to him, “you remember the girl from Twelve?” 

Combeferre frowned, and Enjolras was almost certain that he knew what was coming. 

“Vivienne?” 

“Yes.” He said shortly, feeling the lump rising in his throat, “shes...she’s...” 

Combeferre made a sympathetic noise, already pulling him into a hug. He didn’t need to he told what had happened, he was sure he could probably read it from his his face anyway. 

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered, his voice steady and calm, unlike the racing of Enjolras’s heart. 

He nodded and pulled back, refusing to break down now. He could grieve properly after they won the war. Now was too dangerous. 

“We need to go.” He said, turning to Feuilly. “The Games have begun; they’ll be looking for us.” 

Feuilly hummed in agreement and re-started the engine, his eyes glued ahead of him.

“Where are we stopping first? Combeferre asked, peering out of the back window. 

“Eight, I think.” He replied, turning to Feuilly to confirm. Feuilly nodded and said, 

“We’ll start at Eight and finish at Five.” 

“Isn’t that only like...four Districts?” Cosette said suddenly. She turned to Enjolras, her big blue eyes looking up earnestly at him. “What about the others?” 

“Well,” Feuilly said, catching their eye from the wing mirror, “Yes, but then there’s Courfeyrac from Four, me from Eleven and there was supposed to be Vivienne too...” Enjolras felt his heart clench despite his plan to keep the tears from falling yet, “And then obviously there’s yourself, Combeferre and Enjolras from Twelve, which gives us seven Districts to work with plus Jehan and Grantaire from the Capitol, though technically R is from Twelve, and of course Valjean.” 

Cosette frowned, “but what about the others?” 

“One, Two and Three are too close to the Capitol to be able to trust and Nine and Ten are so small that they’re too scared to rebel.” 

With everything settled, there wasn’t really much to talk about other than the Capitol and Enjolras’s time there. However the others seemed to gather that it wasn’t something he probably wanted to talk about, especially since he’d lost his District partner there. Combeferre suddenly sat up straighter, a bronzed blush tinging his cheeks ever so slightly, for reasons Enjolras couldn’t quite fathom. 

“Did you say Courfeyrac?” He said, eyes wide behind his thin-framed glasses. “As in the Courfeyrac from the Games? The Courfeyrac that fell out of his chariot in the Opening Ceremony?” 

“He fell out of his-“ Enjolras said started bewilderedly, looking at Feuilly who was laughing, nodding at him. “I mean, yeah I guess.” He shook his head, noticing Ferre’s slight fluster. “Why?” 

“Uh, just making sure.” He said unconvincingly, looking anywhere in the room but at him. 

“Right...” Enjolras said slowly, frowning. He looked out of one of the windows just to give him something to do but noticed the tall, spiky fence of District Eight emerging in the distance. 

It was horribly different from Twelve where, though there was the high chance you were going to die from starvation, the rules were slightly more relaxed. This was probably the reason he had been allowed to get away with so much during the meetings he held. But Eight...Eight looked terrifying. The fence was lined with metal plates to prevent anyone from escaping underneath, guarding stations placed at almost every angle, although on closer inspection they did seem to be abandoned. Probably forcibly. 

He wondered vaguely what it had been like here when the riots started. Eight was huge, probably almost four times the size of Nine or Ten, one of the larger Districts. 

Feuilly had decided that it would be easier for just himself to find the rebel they were picking up, thought it was likely they were hidden in the woods where it was more concealed and available to hide in should any Peacekeepers arrive. Enjolras had tried to object, wanting to go with him, but they’d eventually come to the agreement that they were expecting Feuilly anyway which might speed things up bit. 

So the time he’d been spared had given him a while to wonder what the person would be like. He’d been expecting, despite telling himself internally it was kind of stereotyping, someone who would be strong and stocky. It made sense in a way; the District where they were forced to work impossibly hard. So the guy that stepped into the hovercraft behind Feuilly didn’t quite fit his imagination. 

He was tall and quite lanky, scruffy ginger hair and freckles covering his face. His eyes were a bright blue and he had a young face. He looked around fifteen or sixteen but surely he had to be older. Maybe seventeen. 

And okay, now that he thought about it, he wasn’t actually that surprised this guy wasn’t the big muscle maniac he’d imagined; Eight, despite it’s terrifying looks, specialised in textiles. For example; they designed the Peacekeepers outfits, which was sort of a kick in the face. 

The guy looked around nervously, shifting his weight awkwardly from side to side. 

“Hi,” he said eventually, “I’m Marius?” He offered. 

“Enjolras.” Enjolras said, offering his hand, which Marius took in his own clammy ones, shaking it gingerly. Enjolras was polite enough to wipe his hand down on his trousers. “I’d love to chat,” no, he really wouldn’t, “but we’ve sort of got a revolution to plan so we’re going to have to leave as soon as possible.” 

Marius nodded and wandered over to Combeferre and Cosette, his face going particularly red when he was introduced to the latter. 

By the time the remaining Districts had been visited, night had long since fallen. In fact the morning had begun to streak through again; splashes of pink and orange that reminded Enjolras of a painting that Grantaire had once done. 

He worried for Grantaire now, back in Eleven. He worried for Jehan, Courfeyrac and Valjean too. Cosette, Combeferre, Feuilly, little Gavroche back in Twelve who would surely have been dead by now if he’d kept his place on the Games: he worried for them all. 

And perhaps most of all, the now extra five rebels now sat squashed into the hovercraft; squinting, tired eyes and hopeful faces. 

Eight was Marius, but they’d already been introduced. He was as far away from Cosette as humanly possible whilst gaping at her at the same time. 

District Seven had given them a tall, well-built man with tanned, tattooed skin. He was called Bahorel and it was easy to tell this man had spent a great deal of his childhood wielding the weapons Seven produced. However despite his fierce looks, there was a brilliant smile on his face.

District Six, transportation, gave them a small, skinny man with floppy dark hair and pale, almost translucent, skin with a splattering of freckles on his cheeks. His name was Joly and he carried a cane, walking with a heavy limp, but still he radiated beaming energy. 

The last two people came from Five, both very different from one another. The first was a tall, mixed, bald man who had a slight spring to his step when he walked and possibly brightest clothes he’d ever seen. He’d tripped over the threshold of the hovercraft within minutes, introducing himself as Bossuet sort of from the floor. He was covered in an arrangement of burns, which Enjolras could easily imagine him receiving from Five’s job with electricity. 

The second was a small, dark-skinned, rather plump woman with thick curls falling down to her shoulders. Her name was Musichetta, she said, though he’d had to ask a second time because she was so busy laughing at Bossuet on the floor it was hard to make out what she’d said. 

And so altogether there were fifteen rebels, each from different districts and each with their own skills that their lifestyles had provided them with. They made quite the team, Enjolras thought proudly, and they all seemed to be genuinely kind people. 

He knew there was someone missing, and he knew it wasn’t Vivienne. She was still there, he could almost feel her presence in the room. And he could already imagine the pretty smile she used to wear on her face, the way she tilted forwards on her tip-toes as if she were about to take flight. Just like Cosette. 

He could see her in his sister even now; the way she laughed brightly at people’s jokes, the way she played with a strand of her hair as she spoke. Vivienne was still with them and as much as he could still feel the grief twinging his heart. 

No, the person he needed right now was a girl braver then perhaps any other person he’d ever met. She withstood a childhood of abuse and vicious words, practically raising her brother alone and the Capitol still found a way to hurt her. They killed her in the Games like she was no more than a small figurine to them and had no regret. 

Enjolras realised that now, more than ever, he would fight for Eponine Thenardier. He would fight for her and the thousands upon thousands of kids who were killed, families that were torn apart. He was prepared to die, and the people he was fighting with were too. And he would do his best to try and protect them as much as he could but death was inevitable, though he hated to admit it. 

“Anyone who leaves now for District Eleven knows they are facing potential death,” he said eventually, turning so that he was facing the group before him. All eyes turned to him and he felt the familiar weight of worry settling back onto his shoulders, “if you don’t want that possibility, turn back now. In fact I’m telling you; if you do not wish to die, go home.” 

No-one moved. 

“Please.” He added quietly. 

Not a single person stirred. 

“Okay,” he said, taking a deep breath. He let a grin spread across his face as he saw District Eleven on the horizon growing larger. “Let’s fucking do this.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my god  
> I’ve not updated for months!!!!  
> I’m the kind of person who writes so many different fics at once that I just don’t know what to do with myself  
> But I’m so sorry!!!   
> Thank you to anyone who’s still here :)


	12. Chapter 12

It had been almost two days since Enjolras and Feuilly left for District Twelve. 

And that was completely normal. Jehan knew that. Panem was very large, and there were quite a few Districts to get around to, but it did very little to calm the feeling of nausea that had been growing in the pit of his stomach. 

What if they’d been caught by the Capitol? What if someone had seen them and they were being tracked or tailed? What if they hadn’t made it and they were lost or-or what if-

“-Hey, you okay?” 

He turned around. Grantaire placed a hand on his shoulder, his green eyes full of worry. 

“I’m fine. When will they be back do you think?” 

“Hard to say,” Grantaire said after a pause, his hand running through his tangled hair. “Soon?” 

“You should let me cut your hair,” Jehan said before he could stop himself. He winced a little and gave a half shrug, trying (and failing) to appear innocent. 

Grantaire, however, only smirked and purposely messed his hair up even know, laughing as Jehan groaned. 

“Only if you let me cut yours..”

“No, no way. I actually brush mine. I don’t think I could even get you to hold a hairbrush if your life depended on it.”

“Ha ha.” He deadpanned, nudging him with his shoulder. Jehan grinned. He hadn’t seen this side of his best friend since the Games were announced. He wondered how it must have felt every year to try and keep a bunch of brainwashed, death sentenced kids alive all whilst knowing they wouldn’t survive. 

He’d never told Grantaire that the District Twelve tributes were killed every year because the Capitol didn’t let them. He was sure he’d probably figured it out already, but if he hadn’t then he would surely loose faith completely and not even try to mentor them. 

He didn’t know how Grantaire would react if Enjolras died in these next couple of days, weeks or even months. He wasn’t sure how long their fight would last and as it was he had already lost track of time. 

Jehan tried to smile again, still feeling the heavy weight of worry weighing down on his shoulders. He just wanted to know everyone had got home safely. He wanted to know who the rebels were that had been chosen, what they were like and if their names rang any sort of bell. They could be former Victors for all he knew. 

“Jehan,” Grantaire said again, and this time he could hear the worry in his voice. “Come on, what’s really wrong?” 

What  _ was  _ wrong? 

He was worried that Enjolras had been tracked and caught, that no one had made it to the districts. He was worried that Feuilly might have been captured too. That he would never see any of his friends again. 

He was worried that Feuilly had been too tired after all to drive the hovercraft, if he had even known  _ how  _ that was, and he was worried that he’d never see his face again. Never see those green eyes full of kindness and laughter and yet still so much pain that Jehan couldn’t even begin to imagine. He was worried he would never catch that crooked smile or the way his red hair shimmered ever so slightly and-

-and...

...Oh. 

_Oh_. 

_ You like Feuilly.  _

“No, I don’t.” He blurted out, his face flushing furiously. 

“Don’t what?” Grantaire said, pausing halfway through pulling on Jehan’s braid. 

“I don’t...I don’t like Feuilly...” he said, embarrassing settling in the pit of his stomach. 

Shit. Shit, shit, shit. Why did he have to be so stupid? 

“I never said you did.” Grantaire said slowly, his face splitting into a huge grin. “But whilst we’re onto that subject...”

“No. Shut up. Shut  _up_ ,  I  _don’t_.”  He tried to say confidently, withering only slightly under Grantaire’s gaze. He swallowed nervously and sighed, his fingers twisting the hem of his sweater so fast it was in danger of unravelling. “Do I?” He added uncertainly. 

Grantaire gave him a sort of bemused smile, his eyes glittering as he held back laughter. “I’m not saying if you do or don’t-but you do-“ he said mildly, his voice jumping an octave at the end of his sentence, “however, I’ve seen the way he looks at you and I’d be surprised if he didn’t have similar feelings to you.”

Jehan frowned, suddenly feeling much too hot despite it being quite chilly outside. He bit his lip nervously, unconsciously twiddling with his fingers. 

“You think so?”

“I know so.” 

And three hours later, the hum of the hovercraft announced the arrival of Feuilly, Enjolras and the rest of the rebels. Valjean had heard it first, his sharp ears quickly detecting the cease in humming from the birds in the trees nearby. 

They’d been camping out in the woods for now, but Jehan wasn’t really sure what they were planning on doing on the days that they would be fighting but he supposed it was the least of their worries. 

The hovercraft doors opened and out spilled seven people that Jehan had never seen in his entire life. They were all very different, each contrasting so much for each other except from the nervous, slightly awe-struck smiles on their faces, clothes ruffled by the wind. 

So they’d done it then. Enjolras and Feuilly had made it back safely, right? Because neither of them had stepped foot out of the hovercraft and Jehan really wasn’t a panicky person but the anxious twist in his stomach wasn’t going away. 

Just as he was beginning to really panic, the hovercraft door slid open and the two men, deep in conversation, stepped out. Jehan didn’t even hesitate. 

He bolted across the distance between them and before he really even had time to comprehend what he was doing he had thrown himself into Feuilly’s chest, breathing in the steady scent of vanilla and wood. 

It was a scent that he’d never grown up accustomed to and yet at the same time it felt like home. He was used to the heavy chemical smell that was often present in the Capitol; too much sterilisation and surgically altered, a world of plastic and bright shiny marble never really gave that feeling of being home. And whilst, no, he didn’t wish he had grown up in the Districts-that would be a selfish thing to think whilst so many starved to death every day-but...

But those days in the woods when he first met Feuilly were the best of his life. So where the days when he would accompany the Capitol to the Victory Tour, purely for the intent of spending that one glorious day alone in the quiet of the woods that didn’t exist back where he lived. 

Feuilly wrapped his arms back around him after a moment of hesitation and they stayed like that for a little while. When he pulled back there was a strange look in Feuilly’s eye, almost like...no. It couldn’t be sadness, could it? He was about to say something but he was already moving on, jogging to catch up with Grantaire or Valjean or just someone else. 

Someone that wasn’t him. 

“Jehan?” someone said. He looked around and saw Enjolras peering over at him with an unreadable expression. “Are you alright? You look wobbly.”

“I’m always wobbly,” he said quietly, trying but failing to make a joke. Enjolras just frowned deeper.

“What does that even...? You look-“

“-I’m fine.” 

Enjolras nodded, swallowed and flashed him a small smile, wandering over to Grantaire who quickly tackled him to the floor, kissing him firmly on the forehead. It made Jehan’s chest ache with a strange sense of loneliness that he couldn’t fill. 

As he looked around at the group of rebels slowly beginning to mix with one another, trading names and smiles, he caught a glimpse of a certain red-head slipping through a gap in the trees. 

Jehan knew exactly where it lead. 

He followed Feuilly quickly, trying to keep his footfalls light to not let anyone become aware of his disappearance. When he glanced round quickly he noticed Grantaire’s eyes upon him. He waved a little and Grantaire gave him a small nod in return, his attention drawn back to the group as someone with curly, dark hair jumped on his back. 

Courfeyrac would always be Courfeyrac, he mused, even in the most serious of situations. 

He turned his gaze back on the trees and quickly ducked through, hit with a sudden wave of nostalgia as he looked around. 

He’d reached the end of the woods and in front of him lay a field with grass so long overgrown it reached up to his hip. It seemed to go on forever, far into the distance, and he scanned the hedges nearest to him, looking for the one with the orange flowers. 

He located it easily enough and felt his heart speed up as he approached, a faint rustling just audible but only because he was listening for it. 

“Feuilly,” he said quietly. 

The rustling stopped. 

“Feuilly.” He repeated, louder this time. When he still got no reply he sighed, scrunching his eyes up in frustration. “I’m coming in.” He said. 

He pushed himself through the opening in the hedge, getting pickled in the face slightly as he did so. And there, just as it was every year, was the place where he first spoke to Feuilly. 

~~~~~~~

It had been years ago now, the year Grantaire had won, and he couldn’t even remember the reason he had stormed so childishly away from the Capitol crews and found himself here. He remembered trying to bury his way under, desperate to have somewhere to just be alone. And then there Feuilly had been, his hands shaking like an earthquake as he attempted to loop a rope around one of the trees higher branches. For a moment Jehan had been in a state of complete shock. 

He was a Capitol attendant. He was going to scare the guy and if he didn’t then surely he would attack him. Maybe even kill him. Capitol’s were hated in the districts, despised. But then he realised that Feuilly wasn’t just messing with the rope, he was tying it into a makeshift noose. He laid a hand gently on his shoulder and when he turned quickly around his face immediately crumbled, sinking to the ground. 

They stayed like that for hours, Feuilly’s head resting on Jehan’s shoulder. And finally he spoke. 

_ “ _ _Thank you.”_

~~~~~~~~~

And for a second, even now, he worried that he was going to find Feuilly in the act of being moments away from ending it again. 

However, he was not. But his eyes were closed tight, tear tracks glistening on his red cheeks, and Jehan immediately dropped to his knees, taking Feuilly’s pale hands in his own. 

“Feuilly?” 

“J-Jehan. I don’t-I  _ can’t _ -“

“What?” He said frantically, “What is it?” 

“It’s-no. No it’s not fair.” 

“ _Feuilly_.  Feuilly, what’s wrong?” 

Feuilly looked up at him, eyes huge and watery. Then suddenly his lips were on his own and Feuilly was kissing him and- 

And-

“See!” Feuilly sobbed, “see? It’s not fair of me.” 

“I don’t-“

“-I love you, okay? I love you and it’s  _ fine  _ if you don’t...don’t feel the same but-“ 

Jehan cut him off by quickly placing another kiss on his lips, rubbing small circles on the front of his hand with his thumb. Feuilly pulled back abruptly, shaking his head wildly.

“You don’t have to pity me, Jehan. I don’t-“

“-pity you?” He tried to laugh, but it came out sort of strangled. Another tear slipped down Feuilly’s cheek. “You think I don’t...?” He trailed off, running a hand through his hair defeatedly. He could feel it shaking. 

“Feuilly,” he said eventually, feeling the other man’s eyes come to rest on his face. They were such a pretty green, like the sea or maybe emeralds, with long lashes. He wished his own looked like that. “What do I work as?” He asked. 

Feuilly frowned. “The Capitol.” 

“Yes, that makes complete sense,” he mumbled a little inaudible, “but no. Specifically, what as?” 

“Oh. Um, a stylist?” 

“Correct.” 

“Jehan, I don’t-“

“-Jesus! Give me a minute.” He laughed, slightly mesmerised as Feuilly’s eyes crinkled a little in the corners as he chuckled. 

“So I’m a stylist, right?” 

“Right,” Feuilly said slowly and Jehan was around ninety percent sure he was only half following. 

“So I should accompany the Capitol on any Victory Tour that includes a Victor I, well technically Grantaire, styled. Right? Now, which District do I style?” 

“Twelve.” 

“And now many years have Twelve won?” 

“Once.” Feuilly said confidently. And then the realisation began to dawn on him. “Wait, but you-“

“-have arrived with the Capitol every year for the following three years after my tribute won, only to spend no time with any Capitol attendees and miraculously have no one notice, all the while having no real business to be at any of the Districts? Yeah, I know.” He grinned. “And let me tell you, it was worth sitting between bags of fucking garbage for hours on end, to avoid being seen in the hovercraft, to be able to spend one day a year with you.” 

“You really did all that for me?” Feuilly asked, eyes wide with disbelief. And all Jehan could think about was the terrible past that this man had. How, even after it all, he was willing to fight for a world that had never been kind to him. He was willing to give everything up so that others could be happy. Even when he hadn’t experienced that himself throughout his entire life. 

And Jehan had never loved anyone more. 

“And I’d do it again.” 

This time, when Feuilly kissed him, there were no tears or shuddering breaths. Just a moment of blissful happiness in a place that held all the memories of their love. And Jehan found himself realising that if he were to be killed in the upcoming fight, it would have been worth it just for this. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the amount of time it took me to update this chapter, it’s embarrassingly short. However: 
> 
> The REAL plans for the revolution start now 
> 
> If you’re still here from when I uploaded the first chapter then WOW you’re committed and I can’t thank you enough 
> 
> If you’re new...hi! I’m going to try and update more regularly but i can’t promise anything 
> 
> (...sorry...) 
> 
> Thank you <3 
> 
> (If you enjoyed this please let me know)


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okayyyy, so here’s my (mini) playlist that’s inspired by this work...however. I don’t have Spotify (Apple Music) so unfortunately I can’t link it, but here’s the songs and artist: 
> 
> Doom days- Bastille   
> Big bad world- Kodaline   
> The Answer- Kodaline   
> Fire on fire- Sam Smith   
> Do you hear the people sing- Les Miserables   
> Tightrope- The Score   
> Believe- The Score   
> Atlas- Coldplay   
> Try- Pink! OR Try- (Acoustic) Sam Tsui

So we have a plan then?” 

They were sat huddled in the hovercraft, Jehan sat behind the wheel and Combeferre keeping a sharp look-out for anyone coming their way. 

Enjolras looked towards the speaker, which was Bossuet, and stopped his somewhat intense pacing. 

“Of a sort,” he said. When he received a few raised eyebrows he realised he should probably elaborate further. “I have an idea but it’s risky and has about a million plot holes but it might by our only plan of action.” 

Every pair of eyes were trained intently on him, eager and bright and Enjolras couldn’t have asked for a better group. 

“I was thinking we could destroy the tunnel that runs from the Districts to the Capitol.” He was met with a few gasps and nods and honestly it was more than he was expecting. 

He looked around the room and noticed that Combeferre’s brow was furrowed deeply, which wasn’t too surprising. 

And it wasn’t that he enjoyed people poking holes through his plans, but he knew Combeferre was more...well, careful then he was. And he would trust him with his life if it came to it, so above all he sought out his approval. 

“Ferre?” He asked. 

“You said there’s plot holes?” 

Enjolras took a deep breath, knowing what he said next could impact greatly on what the others thought of his plan. And whilst he might have been the leader, he wouldn’t go ahead with something that they disagreed on. 

“Well, it’s not exactly a subtle move and the electricity that runs through the Capitol will be immediately cut off. So whilst sure, it could affect their chances of catching us immediately it will mean that it has instant, angering effect. They’ll be furious.” 

“But isn’t that the point?” Musichetta said, “Make them angry?” 

“Well, yes. But if they’re angry they’re going to want to hurt us. The issue at hand is whether or not they’ll be able to catch us before we can escape.” 

“But Enjolras, this whole thing is risky.” Someone pointed out. He looked around for the speaker, his eyes finding Cosette, who was sat cross-legged on the floor. “They’re going to want to hurt us either way.” 

“Again; yes. They will, they  _do_. And we need to be careful but at the same time show them that we’re not afraid. However, they could probably send down peacekeepers and guards to the source before we could escape back to the hovercraft. And even then they would realise how we’re getting around and could easily shoot us down or keep watch of the skies.” 

“So we don’t use the hovercraft?” Joly said after a moment, “Then how do we get there? It’s much too far to walk.”

“I know and if we were to walk it would take us days, maybe even weeks, to reach the tunnel and by then who knows what they could have done?” Bahorel suggested, his dark eyes flitting around the room for approval. He was met with several nods and murmurs of agreement. 

“We could hide the hovercraft a few hours away and walk from there maybe?” Courfeyrac said suddenly, sitting up straighter. 

Enjolras considered it, weighing out his options (which were considerably few) and decided it was probably the easiest way to get around the problem for now. But that still left the question of how would they return to the hovercraft before the Capitol caught up with them. 

“That’s probably the best option we have at the moment,” he told the rebels, picking back up his pacing again. 

“Plot holes.” Feuilly said suddenly, his eyes darkening, “there’s more than one, isn’t there?” 

Enjolras nodded with a sigh, scratching the back of his head. “Like where do we get the resources from? How do we make sure that there’ll be no guards down there when we arrive?” 

“We’re missing a big one.” Someone said miserably. He looked around and saw Grantaire had slumped a little in his seat, a half defeated expression on his face. Enjolras frowned. Grantaire looked up and his green eyes met the blue, 

“Which districts aren’t involved in the revolution?” 

“One, Two, Three, Nine and Ten.” He replied, not understanding at first. And then it dawned on him, settling with fear in the pit of his stomach. 

“And which district is the only one with access to the tunnels?” 

Enjolras swallowed.

“District Two.”

“Enjolras, there’s no way we can pull this off.” Grantaire said, shaking his head. “We need something else.” 

“R, I appreciate that, but you might be wrong.” He murmured, his brain working so quickly it threatened to go into overload. 

“Enjolras-“

“We can convince District Two. The only problem is that they’re so close to the Capitol their minds aren’t going to be changed by three tributes disappearing. Obviously. But all of us appearing in their district? It could work. I’ll admit I thought the plan with Grantaire might have worked better but-“

“-It caused riots in Eight.” Marius said quietly. So quietly that Enjolras almost missed it. He also cut off his thought process which really wasn’t the most helpful thing but he hoped Marius would have some useful information. 

“What?” He asked, pressing for further details, “what kind of riots?” 

“Huge ones,” Marius continued, “People stopped working, they started shouting in the streets and they knew they’d been lied to.” 

“Marius, the Capitol lied to everyone.” Bahorel said, frowning. “Why did they care so much?”

“Because they kept a Victor. Being a Victor means you’re free, you’re safe. People got scared that the Capitol would start holding more of them hostage. Start killing them off for real.” 

“Being a Victor does not guarantee you a life of freedom,” Grantaire said darkly. “Not when you’re forced to watch tribute after tribute killed because you have no control. Whatever we do, the Capitol will do better. We need to outsmart them.” 

“Well, do you have any ideas?” Enjolras said, somewhat impatiently. It  _ was  _ a good plan they had and with a little bit of tweaking it could be even better. And what other choice did they really have? 

“Well no, but-“ 

“If you think of any please feel free to let us know, Grantaire. But this is serious. We need to-“

He heard Grantaire scoff and he whipped around, shooting him a dark glare. 

“I’m sorry, is something funny?”

“Not funny. But laughable.” 

“And what’s that supposed to mean?” 

Grantaire said nothing but Enjolras saw the muscle ripple in his jaw as he clenched it. 

“R,” Jehan said, his voice too loud in the silence that had followed, “cool it, okay?” 

Grantaire looked as if he was about to say something but stopped, nodding his head stiffly. Enjolras sighed quietly and gave the rebels a quick glance before catching Grantaire’s eye. He gestured impossibly small with his head to the door at the back of the hovercraft. Grantaire seemed as if he was about to ignore him but stood up anyway, following Enjolras’s lead. 

As he closed the door behind them, he turned to face him. 

“What’s going on?” he asked. He wasn’t even particularly angry. Not even disappointed. Just tired. 

Because after everything, he thought that at least Grantaire would have his back. He knew from the beginning that Enjolras’s plan was to revolt, never to stand back. He knew that, and when he came along he knew the chances of any of them being killed was high. 

And it was all things that Grantaire already knew would happen so he didn’t understand why suddenly Grantaire seemed willing to go against everything he said. 

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Grantaire said shortly, his eyes not quite meeting Enjolras’s. 

“Please, R. We don’t have time to argue.” 

Grantaire let out a long, shaky sigh and rubbed a hand over his face. It was only then that Enjolras noticed how subdued he’d been since they’d left for District Eleven. Since-

“This isn’t about Vivienne, is it?” He asked carefully. From the way Grantaire winced at the name he knew he’d struck correct. “You don’t blame yourself do you?” 

“How can’t I blame myself?” Grantaire shrugged, his shoulders slumping. There was a catch to his voice, as if he was trying to keep it devoid of all emotion. It wasn’t working. 

“Grantaire, what happened to Vivienne was not your fault. It was the fault of the Capitol, of Javert, and she would want us to avenge her. You played no part in her death.” 

“I was her mentor, Enjolras. I was supposed to keep her safe. And I didn’t.” 

“No one is ever safe here. You did all you could.” 

“But that’s exactly it, Enj!” Grantaire choked out, “how many others are going to be killed at the hands of the Capitol. I might not have a family, you might not have one, but those people out there  _do_.  Enjolras, you are  _eighteen years old_. ” he said, struggling to keep his voice low, “I forget that sometimes. You’re basically still a child.” 

“I don’t think I’ve ever been a child.” he shot back, the words stinging. He had never grown up with the comfort of family and freedom. He had never had someone to look out for him. He was always the one looking out for others; for his friends, for his district, for his sister. He had grown up with the weight of the world on his shoulders, pushing him down. 

He was not a child. 

“Do you forget what it’s like in the Districts? He said coldly, “do you forget about the people kneeling over from starvation every day? The whippings, the violence, the pain? There are no children  _ left  _ there, Grantaire. They are forced to grow up too fast, too soon. We’re dying, R. The world is dying.” 

“I’m scared.” Grantaire said quietly, looking away. Enjolras reached out to touch him, to pull him closer, but he turned away. 

“We all are.” He said, shrugging lightly. “But we don’t have a choice anymore.” 

“You always have a choice.”

“Not if you want to do the right thing.” 

He cast Grantaire one last glance and then begun to walk towards the door. Before he could leave, he felt Grantaire grab hold of his wrist. He pulled him back, crashing his lips into Enjolras’s. It was a feeling he would never really get used to, unable to comprehend that Grantaire felt like this towards him. It reminded him of the very first time Grantaire kissed him and it felt so long ago. It wasn’t, he knew that. But so much had happened in the time between then and now that his life before the rebellion seemed almost distant. He barely even remembered before Gavroche’s name was drawn at the reaping. 

The kiss was gentle and tender, unspoken worry pulsating through their veins, and there was no expectation or want for more. Grantaire very gently caressed Enjolras’s face, a single tear slipping down his own. As Grantaire wiped it away, Enjolras caught his hand a pressed a kiss to it, slowly letting eyes move to lock with the other man’s. 

“We’ll be okay,” he said quietly, smiling at him sadly. Grantaire nodded and laughed a little, 

“I know.” 

Enjolras felt his heart break a little. 

~~~~~~~~~~

When they re entered the room he felt a small wave of nausea in the pit of his stomach as he thought about what he needed to do. 

“Can you give me a second?” He muttered to Grantaire. He nodded, frowning a little, but returning to where he had been sat. Bahorel immediately began to indulge in conversation, a wide smile on his face, and next to him Bossuet glared as if the story being told was about him. 

Enjolras walked over to the front of the hovercraft, lowering his voice a little. 

Jehan, Combeferre and Courfeyrac all looked up as he neared and he pointed at the three of them and then began to walk back towards the room he’d just left. 

The three followed him, looking between each other in confusion, but said nothing. 

As he shut the door firmly, Courfeyrac was the first to speak. 

“Not that I’m not thrilled you seem to want to talk to us, but what’s going on?” 

“I need to speak to you about something important.” 

Jehan straightened up, Ferre pushed his glasses further up his nose and Courfeyrac’s eyebrows drew closer together. 

“The Capitol are going to be hunting me specifically here,” he said slowly, his heart beating quite quickly, “and if they catch me they won’t kill me straight away.” 

He noticed Combeferre’s shoulders slump, a flash of worry flicker across his face and Enjolras wordlessly knew he’d figured out what he was going to say. And it made it that much harder to continue. 

“They’ll torture me for information, we know they will, and I don’t know how I’d react to that. I don’t think I’d give anything away, but we have to be absolutely prepared for the worst.” 

“What are you saying?” Jehan said, swallowing. He seemed uncertain, as if he was beginning to make the connection but afraid to voice it. 

“If I’m caught by the Capitol whilst I’m anywhere in your eyesight, do not try and rescue me.” He paused, closing his eyes, “Just kill me.” 

“Enjolras, what? No, you can’t think we’d be able to do that!” Courfeyrac looked like he was on the verge of tears and it made him want to cry too. But no, he knew what he was saying was right. 

“Courf, it’s undoubted that along the way we’re going to find out things that Capitol doesn’t want us to know. They will torture the information out of me and then they’ll come for you. It’s safer, please you have to understand.” 

Tears were silently slipping down Jehan’s cheeks but he nodded wordlessly, covering the distance between them and wrapping his arms around him. Enjolras hugged him back, willing himself not to cry. 

He was afraid, for one of the first times. He knew he was probably going to die. 

He looked to Combeferre who he found to be almost frozen, blinking slowly. “Does Grantaire know about this?” 

Enjolras paused. 

“No.” 

“Enj-“

“If he knew he would panic. And he’d kill you before you could kill me.” 

“He should be the one to kill you them.”

“He wouldn’t be able to do it, Ferre. You know that!” 

“He’s right.” Jehan said quietly, “Grantaire wouldn’t be able to do it. And the others don’t know you well enough to go through with it. It has to be one of us.” 

“We don’t even know if it’s going to come to this yet,” Courfeyrac said, his voice full of false happiness. “Let’s not think about that too much, okay?” 

Enjolras nodded and Jehan wiped at his eyes, surprisingly able to recompose himself on demand. He wondered if that was to do with constantly being surrounded by danger and having to deceive people. Probably. 

“Enjolras,” Jehan said suddenly as Combeferre and Courfeyrac returned to their seats. He placed a hand on his elbow gently to get his attention. Enjolras turned to him. 

“I think I have an idea.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m sorry for the like, 2 month gap between these updates....
> 
> Yeah, I don’t have an excuse 
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoy this chapter :)) things are getting *REAL*  
> Please leave a comment and tell me what you think??
> 
> Thanks :)

**Author's Note:**

> So this is going to be multi chaptered or maybe a series?? Idk comment what you think  
> You can find me on tumblr


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